Descending Dreams
by Zerbinetta
Summary: Christine is the cousin of Luciana and comes to visit her Italian family one summer. Through her kindness, she gives her Angel hope that he can be loved before the tragic death. After years of living in memories, they are reunited... in Persia.
1. Chapter I

**Author's notes: **As promised, this is the very, VERY AU phic I've mentioned when I posted the latest chapter of "Purgatory". You might be confused, so I wrote a bit of an introduction at the beginning of this chapter. This is, as mentioned, very AU, so be prepared for a few shocks.

I've played a bit with the timeline in Kay, so if you haven't read her book yet, you might be even more confused (is that even possible?). If you have, you know when and where this is happening and who the other characters are. (I hope I got the Italian right… please forgive any mistakes! The AltaVista translator isn't completely reliable…)

To stay true to Kay, this should be somewhere during 1846, I think, the last year of Giovanni's narrative… for various reasons. Christine is as old as Luciana here. Based primarily on Kay and bits of Leroux, I'll be using some of ALW´s lyrics as well. And I'll take the liberty of giving our little ingénue a bit more spine than she usually has.

The story is already planned out, so don't worry about anything. Just sit back and enjoy the first chapter of what will hopefully be a novel-length phic. I'm finishing "Jaded" this week, so I suppose I'll have more time for this. But I'm still too lazy to create names for chapters. :-P

Anyway, to end my unusually long ramble, read, review and tell me what you think.

Oh yeah… **I don't own anything and you know it. If I did, I suppose I'd have Erik Punjab Raoul and marry Christine in the first chapter. So no, all belongs to the three geniuses: Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Weber. God Bless them all.**

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**Chapter I **

X X X X

"Christine!"

The thirteen-year-old brunette barely had time to turn around before a mass of silky dark hair and giggles was upon her, hugging her tightly. She smiled – it was good to see Luciana in a better mood. She had not seen her cousin for three years and was afraid that a stay with the nuns would depress such a bubbly creature all-too-easily. Her cousin was her exact counterpart.

Christine Daaé, an orphan for quite some time now, was born to a Swedish violinist and his half-French, half-Italian wife, who died almost directly after childbirth. Entrusted into the care of her uncle, the child was sent to the Parisian Musical Conservatoire, already showing much promise with her crystal clear soprano voice. With her shy politeness, angelic appearance and kind heart, she was the opposite of the brash and impulsive Luciana, who had always gotten exactly what she wanted. Christine knew what struggle meant, she remembered the fear after her father passed away – fear of becoming a street urchin. Her uncle, however, accepted her as he would accept another child, with all the love and caring she would have received from her own father.

But, knowing that his youngest daughter and Christine's favorite cousin wasn't getting along with his… apprentice?… Giovanni decided that it would be best to bring Christine to Rome for the holidays, if only to ease the tension in the house. Luciana adored Christine, often wishing she could also sing so beautifully. The young girl would at least be a distraction, if nothing else, and he had already promised her that she would see Rome soon.

Hopefully, Luciana's obsession with Christine would rival her other obsession, which also had a name. Though unsure what this pale-skinned princess would bring to the house with her, Giovanni watched with a smile as his niece finally untangled herself from his daughter's embrace.

"Uncle!" She noticed him at the door. With a light laugh and her signature smile, she ran to him, landing in his embrace.

"Piccola Principessa Christiana!" he chuckled at the sound of her giggles, "How you have grown, child! How you have grown. You seem so much happier than when I last saw you." Indeed, she was much happier now. No longer timid, the little lady was as bright as the afternoon sun.

"Yes!" she beamed, "I get to visit you, see Rome and my teachers give me the lead role in this year's ending play! It was so wonderful!" She walked gracefully into the house, Luciana hot on her tail.

"Oh, Papa! You didn't tell me Christine was coming!" Luciana mimicked a sulk, but couldn't hold the act for long, "You didn't tell me!"

"I wanted to surprise you, Luciana." Giovanni said, smiling at his daughter's sudden change of behavior. The spoiled brat was gone… the part of Luciana he loved was back. For how long, though?

"That you did!" she laughed.

"I hope you're not too upset, Luciana." Christine noted, smiling shyly, "I also wanted to surprise you, otherwise I would have written to you."

"How can I be mad at you! I haven't seen you in ages! But you were talking about a play – tell me about it! Tell me what play it was, who you were playing, what were you wearing – everything!"

"Child, Christine is probably tired – the journey was long and…"

"Oh, Papa, I simply wish to know!"

Bowing her head with a smile – her cousin hadn't changed one bit – Christine answered: "It was just a student play, but the opera we have chosen was wonderful. The name Hannibal probably doesn't mean much to you?"

Luciana shook her head. "Historical?"

"Ancient Rome and Carthage."

The Italian girl shook her head again, "History makes my head ache."

"Surely you are familiar with at least part of your country's history."

While Luciana tried (and failed) to resist the urge to roll her eyes, Giovanni patted Christine's shoulder, an obvious sign that she should continue with the story, rather than wasting her precious energy on educating a stubborn child. Despite both being thirteen, despite the fact Christine was the quiet one, it was she who was the mature one, who loved arts and history above all else. She was well educated in both, despite being a girl – Giovanni saw to that when he noticed the eagerness in her eyes when he spoke of his work in Rome.

With a nod, Christine continued. "Well, anyway, I played Elissa, Queen of Carthage – Hannibal's lover."

At the mention of love, Luciana squealed. "Wonderful! It has a happy ending, the play, right?"

A smile. "That depends on your point of view."

"And what did you wear? Crinolines? Corsets? And silk? Surely a queen must have the most expensive gowns…"

On and on Luciana rambled, even as Christine's driver brought her luggage inside and Giovanni paid him, even as the three of them sat down for supper. She didn't eat and hardly allowed Christine to eat anything, always asking questions. But they were good-natured and the Swedish girl couldn't resist answering.

Giovanni only watched, silent. Indeed, bringing Miss Daaé here was a good move. Luciana had completely forgotten that there was another in the house, completely forgotten about their childish (at least for her part) squabbles.

He hadn't seen his daughter so content for at least a year.

Then, when it seemed there were no more details of her cousin's life hidden from her, Luciana spoke up again. "Why don't you sing us a song, Christine?"

She seemed uncertain. "Luciana, you can't just start singing like that," she snapped her fingers, "You have to have at least ten minutes worth of practicing scales before you can even sing one word. My voice would sound terrible."

"Your voice never sounds terrible!" Luciana insisted, "If I could sing half as well as you do, I would be the happiest girl in Rome!"

"But the pitch…"

"Please, Christine?" Puppy-dog eyes of an eager child were hard to resist. "Please? I would like to hear something from Hannibal. You said yourself that I know little of history! Teach me, then, at least like this!"

Without any idea how to object to that begging, she glanced at Giovanni, completely helpless. He shrugged, "Your voice is flawless, Christine. I would be delighted to hear you sing." He was supported by his daughter's frantic nod.

Resigning, Christine sighed and nodded, to her cousin's great delight. She stood up from the table and walked to the center of the room, straightening up. She chose her favorite song from Hannibal – one of Elissa's solos – and took a few deep breaths, humming for a moment before opening her mouth to sing the first notes.

_Think of me_

_Think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me_

_Once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try_

_When you find_

_That once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free _

_If you ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me_

She could almost hear the music in her head as she waited for her time to sing again. If there was anything more beautiful in the world than singing, Christine didn't know what it was. The very release of her soul – that was what singing was to her. She pirouetted, eyes closed, arms outstretched, as the music in her mind reached the point she was supposed to start again.

_We never said_

_our love was evergreen_

_or as unchanging as the sea_

_But if you can still remember_

_Stop and think of me_

The change of the melody didn't frighten her.

_Think of all the things we've shared and seen_

_Don't think about the way things might've been_

_Think of me_

_Think of me waking_

_silent and resigned_

_Imagine me_

_trying too hard_

_to put you from my mind_

_Recall those days_

_Look back on all those times_

_Think of the things we'll never do_

_There will never be a day_

_when I won't think of you!_

She was supposed to wait after that, but it was just a few verses and the pause was quite long, so decided she could skip part of the music and returned to the melody in the "our love was evergreen" part, singing the final part of the song.

_Flowers fade_

_The fruits of summer fade_

_They have their seasons_

_so do we_

_But please promise me that sometimes_

_you will think…_

Coloratura, as hard as it was, was also one of her favorite parts. She could sing like a songbird – no words, no meaning, simply emotion. And then, the final deep breath came.

_Of me! _

Even though it was only Giovanni and Luciana clapping, even a standing ovation of an entire Opera house couldn't please Christine more.

"You see! You see!" Luciana squealed, "You were perfect!" Christine laughed, shaking her head. She was far from perfect, but was happy anyway. "Sing some more!"

Thinking for a moment, Christine decided that only Giovanni would probably be able to see she was singing the lines of the chorus as well, but the scene when Elissa greets Hannibal and his army was the first thing that came to her mind.

With a deep breath, she began again.

_This trophy from our saviors, from the enslaving force of Rome! _

_With feasting and dancing and song_

_Tonight in celebration_

_We greet the victorious throng_

_Returned to bring salvation!_

_The trumpets of Carthage resound!  
Hear, Romans, now and tremble!_

_Hark to our steps to the ground!_

_Hear the drums – Hannibal comes!_

She skipped Hannibal´s lines – there were few and singing tenor seemed silly to her. Instead, she went right to the end of the ballet that was supposed to take place in-between.

_Bid welcome to Hannibal´s guests – _

_The elephants of Carthage!_

_As guides on our conquering quests,_

_Dido sends_

_Hannibal´s friends!_

And finally, she sung her own lines, raising her gaze, as she would on stage, since Hannibal was now supposed to be on the back of an elephant.

_Once more to my _

_Welcoming arms_

_My love returns_

_In splendor!_

She wanted to stop just there. She was going to stop just there, ignoring the fact that the verse was unfinished, because Hannibal was supposed to sing the second part. It was perhaps unfair to her audience, but singing tenor AND singing a dialogue with herself would be downright ridiculous.

She would have stopped.

_Once more to those _

_Sweetest of charms_

_My heart and soul_

_Surrender._

Was her imagination really so vivid that when she imagined the stage, the costumes, the music, she could imagine another's voice? She could… but even her imagination wasn't hyperactive enough to imagine _that _voice. It wouldn't dare. The voice she heard was too… unearthly, ethereal… divine to ever enter her mind in real life. She could only dream of hearing angels.

She continued the lines of the chorus. And as she sang, she knew it was now a duet.

_The trumpeting elephants sound – _

_Hear, Romans, now and tremble!_

_Hark to their steps on the ground – _

_Hear the drums!_

_Hannibal comes!_

Finally, the song ended. Oblivious to the surprise of both Giovanni and Luciana – a surprise of a different kind than her own – she turned around to face the source of the voice which she now knew wasn't merely her imagination.

To some relief and some disappointment, she saw no angel. Yet she bowed her head to the masked boy respectfully, unsure what to say.


	2. Chapter II

**Author's notes:** Thank you so much for the positive reviews, they gave me a reason to continue! Here's another chapter!

**starnat** – Yay, thanks! I kinda hoped it would be an original idea… read on!

**longblacksatinlace** – heh Luciana loves her cousin! But of course, there's tall, dark & handsome… so we'll just have to see! Read on!

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**Chapter II **

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Living underneath the ground for some time, he had long since conjured up his own little illusion that it was he that was on the level on the ground and the house above was heaven. Heaven in more ways than a normal human could imagine. It was a heaven where there was a merciful God, not like the one the Christians that surrounded him believed in. Not like the one who had his own little state – Vatican – only a few minutes of riding away from here.

This God was merciful, kind and caring… and he had an ordinary name, no cryptic words that "he was who he was". A name, simple and ordinary that Erik worshipped as his savior: Giovanni, the man who became a mentor, a friend and father to the boy who was losing his faith in not only the church, but humanity itself as well.

There were no angels in this heaven, only the kind God… but now it seemed that Lucifer, the fallen angel, had returned. The Bible wasn't completely wrong, it seemed. Lucifer was the God's most prized angel. Lucifer had come, in a form of beauty, in the body of a girl… with the name of Luciana. Even the name betrayed her.

Ever since her arrival, a gap, an immense abyss, was forming between master and student. Giovanni had never spoken of her before and her sudden homecoming seemed to have shocked him as well. But that first misfortune was just the beginning of the real disaster.

Luciana was beautiful on the outside, true, a beauty that captivated him. Underneath, however, resided the soul of a spoiled child that was not used to denial, a child that wanted the world and more.

In a way, ironic as it was, selfish as it might sound, they were ideal counterparts. He, cursed with the visage of a demon but the soul of an angel, she, blessed with the appearance of a nymph but with the heart of a spiteful princess.

For the months - months! Or was it years already? – he kept avoiding her at all times, fearing the pain that would surely find him if he would talk to her in any other manner than the strict politeness he used. Locking himself up in his cellar, he devoted himself fully to his work, his science, his music… but it seemed that nothing was sacred to Luciana. The child didn't seem to take the hint that he didn't want to be around her. She would keep demanding his attention with sarcasm and irony of a professional torturer.

How easily heaven could be turned into hell.

Today was no different from any other morning, until he realized that the usual sounds in the house were absent. It didn't bother him much… except when he could clearly hear Luciana squeal with delight because of something did he frown. While spiteful, the girl never seemed to be very happy since she came. Now it sounded as if she were positively delighted because of something. Then again, all the better for him, if it would mean a little more peace in the house.

Again, the house was quiet for a few precious moments. It could have been an hour, at the best, but then another voice took over, one he didn't recognize. It was muffed – all sounds from the outside were, since the cellar was sealed away from the rest of the world. But he could hear two things: the person was singing and the voice… the voice! The voice certainly didn't belong to either of the permanent residents of the house! It was female, so it couldn't be Giovanni and it was too soft to be Luciana's shrieking.

He had known that it was heaven above him, but never in his wildest dreams did he think that angels would be singing there.

With the soundless grace only he could create, he slipped from his dark prison, moving through the house unnoticed, as he always had to do lately. The voice was coming from the dining room, so he had no problem hiding behind various furniture to get closer to its source.

The singer had her back turned to him, so all he could see was her cream colored dress and long chocolate curls that fell down her back. But when she paused during the song, obviously listening to the music in her head and began to spin on the spot, as childish as he thought it was, it gave him a chance to get a glimpse of her face.

She was about as old as Luciana, but there was a softness to her features, a paleness to her skin that he knew immediately that this girl wasn't Italian. And her appearance, just as her voice, enabled him to think of only one word to describe her: angel.

Vocal training had tamed her voice, so her technique was decent, but in Erik's opinion, the girl must have sung like this since birth – such a voice couldn't be simply acquired by training. And it was obvious that she loved singing. No other emotion could bring such happiness to her voice.

The aria she was singing was over all too soon and just as Luciana squealed that she should sing more, the same thought entered his mind. The girl's laugh sounded almost like a song in its own way, but she submitted to her audience's wishes and continued singing after a moment, choosing a different part of Hannibal.

While that wasn't his most favorite opera in the world, Erik decided that Elissa´s part suited this girl in a way it could never suit even the most famous Prima Donnas.

_With feasting and dancing and song_

_Tonight in celebration_

_We greet the victorious throng_

_Returned to bring salvation!_

Even the whole chorus – the female chorus was supposed to sing that part – wouldn't have sounded better to his ears. This girl was giving her soul to the music, thus even if she would sing a male part, he would have probably applauded her.

_The trumpets of Carthage resound!  
Hear, Romans, now and tremble!_

_Hark to our steps to the ground!_

_Hear the drums – Hannibal comes!_

And she dared to do it – she was singing the lines of the male chorus. Idly he wondered if she would sing Hannibal's lines as well. It would sound strange, true, but it was the feeling that mattered, the voice that sung the words, not the words themselves. The lyrics could burn for all he cared. But he wanted to hear her voice again.

_Bid welcome to Hannibal's guests – _

_The elephants of Carthage!_

_As guides on our conquering quests,_

_Dido sends_

_Hannibal's friends!_

He held back a chuckle – strange as it was, since he never had an urge to laugh – since she decided to avoid singing the few lines with which Hannibal was supposed to encourage the rest of the performers to feast and sing. Instead, she skipped to the part after the ballet intermezzo, straight to the arrival of the elephants. And she had done it so fluently that it didn't seem to matter to him.

Now standing almost in profile, raising her gaze to someone only she could see – Hannibal, he realized, since the tenor singing him was now supposed to be on the elephant and Elissa was to bid him farewell again.

_Once more to my _

_Welcoming arms_

_My love returns_

_In splendor!_

If she was to stay true to the libretto, she would stop right there. But the verse was unfinished, the scene incomplete and it just didn't seem… right to him. If there was something Erik hated, it was an unfinished job or an unsuccessful experiment. And this girl had proven an experiment worthy of his time.

Deciding to abandon his hiding place, he slipped to the opened door, making it seem as if he had just arrived. He knew Giovanni wouldn't be pleased if he knew he was spying on them for so long. Recalling the following lines, he took a breath and sang, hoping that the girl wouldn't be too startled.

_Once more to those _

_Sweetest of charms_

_My heart and soul_

_Surrender._

Only a shiver seemed to pass through her small body as the girl realized that it wasn't just her imagination. The wonderful thing was that she didn't panic at all, she continued the final chorus lines, just as he had hoped.

_The trumpeting elephants sound – _

_Hear, Romans, now and tremble!_

_Hark to their steps on the ground – _

_Hear the drums!_

_Hannibal comes!_

He sang with her, their voices in a harmony he didn't know was possible. Only when the song ended did the girl break free of the spell, turning around to see who had decided to sing with her.

And of all the possible reactions to him, the respectful nod she gave him after just a couple of seconds was probably in the bottom five he was expecting.

Giovanni never realized that one could have a heart attack from a series of sudden simple shocks. He knew that eventually, he would have to alert Erik to his niece's presence, but didn't know that it would be so soon. Still, the boy had the eyes of a cat and the ears of a fox, so it seemed only natural that a sound as sweet as the young girl's song would draw him.

The silence had to be broken quickly before it became too uncomfortable. He stood up hastily, walking to Christine's side.

"Erik, I'm sorry - we have probably disturbed your work. But my niece has just arrived and Luciana wanted to hear her sing a bit. This is Christine Daaé, my sister's daughter." He placed his hands on her shoulders briefly. "I thought Luciana might enjoy the company during the summer."

Erik understood the hint – the girl was brought to amuse Luciana, so the child would waste her energy on something more fruitful than pursuing him at every moment. For that, he was grateful. Or at least he would be, if the thought of seeing a living, breathing angel in that very room would simply leave his thoughts.

"Christine, this is Erik, my student, I suppose, though in truth, it is I who am learning." The compliment earned Giovanni a brief smile from said student, for the brief moment he managed to tear his eyes from Christine's face.

"An honor to meet you, mademoiselle." Erik politely took her hand, but was careful not to touch it any more than necessary. The skin he felt was too soft.

Finally Christine's awed look vanished slightly and she smiled politely. "It is my honor to meet someone who has so much to teach a fine master mason such as my uncle, monsieur. Merci infiniment."

Erik raised an eyebrow elegantly. "The mademoiselle is French?"

"Partially, yes, but not completely, like you seem to be. The mademoiselle lives in Paris. And the mademoiselle would be most happy if the monsieur would simply call her Christine." She said, smiling almost impishly.

He released her hand from the grasp that was unusually light, compared to his standards and forced himself to look at Giovanni, informing him that he had altered the designs of their current job and would need to discuss it with him later on, because he was sure that the customer wouldn't be happy and he wasn't too eager to compromise on a shallow and garish building. Then, he turned his attention to Luciana, who was still in a state of shock because of his sudden appearance and said simply that: "the bench for the mademoiselle will soon be ready".

Bowing respectfully to Christine, he tore his gaze away from the smile with which she rewarded him and, like a shadow, fled from the room, away from the torturous angel. But he couldn't wipe her from his mind.

Christine, for her part, was quite stupefied on the inside – she had met quite a few boys, admirers, even, despite her youth, so she had the practiced politeness of an opera diva. But it always took her just a second to slip into the routine of kindness. This time, if Giovanni wouldn't have spoken, she would have probably stood there for hours, simply staring at the sight in front of her, the embodiment of grace and sensuality that had appeared in front of her all too suddenly. That is, if she could survive the burning intensity of his gaze much longer.

She had noticed the mask, of course, but in her sweet trance, she didn't dare or want to question it. It would also be impolite, she decided, so she tried to slip into the secure politeness. Inside, she was absolutely certain she must have looked like a gawping child.

Snapping out of her trance again, she excused herself to Giovanni and Luciana and told them that she would go have a look at Rome from the rooftop balcony – thatshe wanted to see the city in the twilight sun. But just as Erik, she knew that she needed to escape from the intense sensation that passed through her. She was a child at heart, ignorant to it. And ignorance was dangerous.

She knew the way up – the house was not unknown to her – and neither of her relatives protested as she slipped away, retreating to the sunlight. She didn't hear or see anything... and she certainly didn't hear Luciana's voice saying:

"I think Christine should be singing for us more often, don't you, Papa?"


	3. Chapter III

**Author's notes**: Haha, success! Success! Thanks for all the reviews, they're much appreciated!

**MG** – thanks! Read on…

**longblacksatinlace**– no spoilers, no spoilers. I myself have a general idea what's gonna happen, but the details are evolving.

**Elenion-Ancalima** – no spoilers. :-) But thanks – my first attempt at originality is successful!

**Mina** – I'm still wondering if I should add le Fop or not. Hmm… since you're begging, here's an update!

**Enrinye**– a bit earlier? It's almost 40 years earlier! (enigmatic smirk about the Persia comment) I'm not telling you anything. Don't worry, it'll be okay. Hey, I've told you all I could about the Kay version. You have to read it someday! It's cool! As for your Chapter II review: Mwahahaha, success!

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**Chapter III**

X X X X

In the two following weeks, Christine's presence in the house became a natural thing. She shared Luciana's room for the first few days, but eventually it was decided (much against Luciana's liking) that she would rather move to the guest room, though the Italian girl rarely allowed her to do anything alone, sleeping being the only exception.

The Swedish girl got used to speaking Italian quickly, since it was one of the languages she spoke quite fluently. Unfortunately, with Luciana constantly demanding her attention, she had little opportunity to even venture out of the house. Day after day, Luciana would want a song – a song in the morning, after lunch, a lullaby… and Christine's throat eventually got so sore that Giovanni had to persuade his daughter that it would be best to let her rest for a few days.

Since she could only speak in a near-whisper, Luciana soon seemed to lose interest, constantly escaping to some dream world Christine couldn't quite perceive, let alone see a reason for that. It turned out that her cousin had changed after all, more than she suspected.

When she was finally able to speak again, after three days of quiet whispers, it didn't even surprise her that Luciana demanded a song again. Leaving a note on the kitchen table, she rather snuck out of the house and into the Roman streets than spend another minute in the house – the house that begun to seem more and more of a prison each day. She had no idea what had happened there, but had more than a few suspicions.

Asking at a marketplace for directions – thank God Giovanni had told her what street they were building on – she finally arrived at the site. He uncle saw her quickly, the sight of a blue dress easy to distinguish, considering the surroundings. He was just watching the building at the moment, playing with ideas in his mind, so there was nothing wrong with interrupting that work.

"Christine!" the girl's head quickly moved to him – she was staring at the building with awe, but smiled as she saw him approaching her. "Child, what are you doing here?" Then he realized why and smiled. "Luciana is already driving you out of your mind?"

"Uncle, what has happened to her? I know she used to have her 'moments', but this is a bit extreme – these are tantrums!"

Giovanni signed. He understood why, of course, but was he supposed to tell her? If he would tell her, she might realize she was slowly falling into the trap that caught Luciana and evade it. If he wouldn't­… no, he had to. It would be better.

"It is complicated, bella." His gaze dropped to the ground. "And yet very simple." Then he glanced up at the second story of the building – the one they were currently finishing – his eyes resting on a dark silluette.

Christine looked at him, then at the spot he was now looking at… and she understood. She didn't have to see the person in the light to see who it was. It was as she had feared. She knew very well Luciana was not used to denial and it was to be expected that she would react badly, if something she wanted wouldn't be given to her. And if she was being denied the attention of someone who seemed to be just as stubborn and strong-willed as she, if not more thickheaded, she could only imagine what a war zone the seemingly peaceful house she was to spend the rest of the summer was.

She nodded, her eyes studying the ground intensely for a moment.

"Christine, I know you are a reasonable girl and understand what is happening. I had found this boy wandering the streets of Rome alone and gained his trust only with time. As briefly as you have known him, I am sure you can see he is… different in many ways." Another nod. "I would be very sad to lose what took so long to build. Luciana has already shattered too many things and is close to breaking things that cannot be mended. I beseech you, do not make the same mistake my daughter is making."

"The mistake of being amazed or the mistake of demanding what can never be mine?" she asked with a smile despite the seriousness of the whispered question.

Giovanni didn't return the smile, even though he might have wanted to. His niece probably understood only the surface. For now, it was enough. For now. "Be wary of both mistakes, Christine." And to change the subject, "But you shouldn't just stand around here. Come, I shall give you some paper and you can sketch, if you like. I remember you used to be very good."

"Uncle, you know my sketching has no future." The childish pout made Giovanni smile at long last. The sketches he had seen long ago were wonderful, because Christine had a very good eye. The only thing he regretted that she always sketched only things she could see and never tried to express her own feelings with the pencil in her hand,

"There is no shame in having it as a hobby, at least."

"I haven't practiced for very long."

"Come, try it, at least." He took her hand, leading her to the table with plans and sketches he was sitting at moments ago. Collecting the plans, he produced a clean sheet of paper and a few pencils for her to sketch with.

When she was ready to start, Christine once again looked up at him. "What would you like me to draw?"

"Use your imagination, child. It will be your work, not mine." Glancing around, he noticed one of the statues being prepared for the building.

The future owner was a very devoted Catholic, so he wanted his house to be decorated properly. As such, most of the statues that were going to be used were symbols of Christianity… such as the marble angel he saw there. The statue was still missing a head, though – the customer had not yet decided on that. Besides, it was a detail that would have to wait until the end of the month, when the final phases of the building would be set into motion.

"But if you really want my advice, I would say you could try that angel statue. It has a lot of details, so I think you will need to do several sketches. And you would really be doing a few people a favor here if you could come up with a suitable head for the damned thing – the customer keeps changing his opinion about what it should look like."

With a smile, Christine collected the things she needed from the table and found a wooden plank she could use instead of the table, took her chair and moved as close as she could to the statue, claiming that if this was supposed to be done properly, she had to see the details clearly.

It was actually very relaxing to be finally doing something productive and creative, without having to damage her voice for someone's personal pleasure.

Giovanni watched her for a few minutes, content that she had found something to do. He saw that his daughter's constant demands were deeply affecting her, now allowing her the rest she needed. After all, even Christine wanted this to be a holiday, not a prison camp.

"Sir, the progress is not hindered anymore. It seems the change of the material has improved everything."

Since he was used to "the appearing/disappearing act" by now, Giovanni wasn't at all startled to find Erik standing next to him without seeing him approach, after about an hour of going through the new designs they had discussed previously and keeping an eye on Christine.

He nodded. "Very good, Erik. I think we might finish a few days earlier, if everything goes according to plan. Another customer will be surprised, it seems."

"It would all be far easier if the man would simply accept the designs without the pompous sequins he insists upon." Erik muttered, almost to himself.

"Well, I hope my personal designer will find a way to deal with that problem." He motioned to the small figure about a hundred meters away, who was now standing, examining the statue from every angle, then returning to her chair and taking up once again her unfinished work. Erik noticed her as well, surprised at her presence and then at the care with which she was working.

The boys who were responsible for carrying the statue around had already surrounded Christine, not sparing any compliments when they saw what she was attempting to do. She had finished the main part of her task, so only the head was missing.

"That is wonderful work, miss. I think the designers couldn't have done it better."

"Though Fabian is an intolerable idiot, I must agree with him this time, miss." After that, the boy received a whack from said idiot.

"But forgive our manners. I am Fabian, this oh-so-intelligent bloke is Paolo and those two idiots gawping at you are Dino and Benito. And what might your name be?"

Christine laughed lightly and introduced herself as well, causing Paolo to frown. "I heard the master has some relative visiting these days… wouldn't it by any chance be you?" when she nodded, he smiled. "Figures. Talent runs in the family."

"I should add that beauty does as well, but you are the first female from the master's family that I have seen and it would be really disturbing to compare you to the master." Dino added, since he stopped gawping a bit. The others and Christine laughed.

"Thank you for the compliments, but it isn't finished by far." Christine frowned, "I have no idea how I am going to continue."

"It's wonderful so far."

"Perhaps, but I cannot sketch things I cannot see. I'm not a creative artist."

"Well, I don't think you will find much inspiration for an angel's head round here."

But Fabian snapped his fingers suddenly and pulled something out of his pocket. It turned out to be a mirror – it was old, the golden frame was scratched in several places and the glass was a bit dirty, but it was still usable. He polished it a bit and handed it to Christine.

"Now you can continue without problems, miss." He noted proudly as Christine examined the object.

"What is she supposed to do with a mirror, you dolt?" Paolo snapped.

Fabian rolled his eyes. "Well, look in it, obviously. That's the best inspiration she will get – it'll be easy to draw an angel when looking at one." He noted triumphantly.

Christine's eyes dropped to the picture on her lap and she blushed slightly, mumbling her thanks. It went mostly unnoticed by the boys because of two things: one, because they were too busy either rolling their eyes and saying that they would have said the same thing, but it sounded too sugary to them and pointing out the obvious was unnecessary and two, because they had little time to do anything before a cool voice behind them said:

"And it would also be much easier if you would stop bothering the lady and get to work. You're late already."

All four shrunk under Erik's gaze – the sight of him with folded arms was enough to warn them that this wasn't a joke. With quick mutters of "Yes, sir." "At once, sir." and a second later "Pleasure to meet you, miss Christine." they scurried away as quickly as they came.

Just to make sure they wouldn't just try to slip away from work again, Erik watched them until they disappeared behind the walls, but even as he spoke to Christine, he didn't turn to her.

"Please forgive the intrusion, mademoiselle. They are unused to seeing a lady around here, much less one such as yourself."

"That is alright. I am used to these things from the Conservatoire. I should be the one apologizing for disturbing your work."

"There is no need. They would have no doubt found another reason why to come late. One more time and we'll be needing new workers."

"Strive for excellence, not perfection, monsieur." He finally turned to face her, glancing at her with some surprise. "Not all can see the world through your eyes. They might not understand."

"Yes, but unfortunately, I can't finish the building on my own."

Christine laughed. "Yet you seem determined to try."

"I never leave a job half-unfinished." Erik noted.

"That is probably the one thing we have in common." With a smile, Christine picked up her pencil again. "But I have taken too much of your time. Your workers need you and I need to finish my task as well. My uncle wouldn't be pleased if I wouldn't finish this."

"I think he is more pleased with you than you know, mademoiselle."

She shook her head, both because she didn't believe that and because of the title. "I have told you that there is nothing wrong with calling me Christine."

"It wouldn't be appropriate, mademoiselle – your uncle is my master and you are a guest at the house."

"True. But then again, how will you distinguish me and Luciana?" He almost winced at the sound of that name. "She is also 'mademoiselle'."

"The two of you are impossible to mistake for each other. But if it will be necessary, I will have to take the liberty of addressing you as mademoiselle Christine."

A shrug. "A start, I suppose. It was nice to see you again, monsieur."

"Must you insist on that title, mademoiselle?" Not that he didn't appreciate it, he was simply unused to it. And it sounded strange that such a civilized girl would address him, of all people, with such respect.

Since she was waiting for such a reaction, she said: "Just as you insist on my title, monsieur."

Quite innocently.

"Very well then… Christine." It earned him a smile. "I will leave you to your work." He turned to leave, wavering only for a second. "The fools might not tell the truth, but that mirror does." And he briskly walked away, even though he sensed her quizzical glance.

Enigmatic as that final half-whispered observation was, Christine decided to see how it would look if she would take the advice and give the angel statue her head. While it felt utterly silly and egotistical, the result was quite satisfying.

The angel looked like her, there was no doubt about it – the same hair, same eyes, only the smile was absent. Angels had to be strict in a way, she reasoned, and the thoughtful expression she drew seemed suitable to her.

After she was finished, she ran to show the sketch to Giovanni, who smiled as he examined it, praising her work. It was almost dusk already and most of the workers were preparing for dinner, but those who had passed Christine while she was drawing and praised her even with an approving glance came to bid her farewell – Giovanni convinced her it might be good to go check upon Luciana. Besides, he didn't want her wandering the streets after dark.

When she was gone and the workers were dining, he went to search for Erik, who, as usual, didn't eat for the whole day.

"If you would have enough time, I'm quite sure you would build this on your own." Giovanni said as he found his student on the second floor, fixing part of the wall.

"You should go get some food, sir. You need to save your strength."

"I am quite fine, boy, it's you I'm concerned about. Christine's visit was unexpected, otherwise I would have advised her against it."

"She is gone, then?"

Giovanni nodded. "Gone and finished her work." He showed Erik the finished sketch. "She left it here. I asked her to leave it. I want to show it to that Ruggiero fellow – see if he can finish it according to this. He's a talented sculptor, so all I need if the client's approval."

"Does Christine know you want to do this?"

"I would like to surprise her." Giovanni noted, hiding a smile at the sound of Christine's name. If they got beyond the strict formalities, perhaps it wasn't that risky to have her around. Perhaps it was actually just what they needed. "But maybe I should rather bring her here more often, so she can design some more – you know well how… persistent… Luciana can be when it comes to seeking attention. The girl needs some peace."

Still looking at the paper in his hands, Erik nodded. He knew of those things all too well.

"If it bothers you, though, I can ask one of the neighbors to show her around the city instead of bringing her here. I know she will find both equally enjoyable."

"No." Was the slightly sharp reply. "No, it doesn't bother me at all. As long as it won't change anything, she is free to come here if she wishes to." He was still looking at the sketch. It seemed right to see her face as the angel's and if anything was certain, it was no matter how vain their customer was, this was bound to please him.

"Good sketches are hard to come by."

"This one had the perfect inspiration, sir." With that, Erik handed him the paper and disappeared back into the shadows, but judging from the sounds that resumed, he was once again double-checking the work.

Giovanni, slightly puzzled, looked at the paper once more. It took him about a minute (because of the darkness he was standing in) to see just how much the face resembled Christine's.


	4. Chapter IV

**Author's notes:** Next chapter! Damn, I'm updating daily! Don't expect that to last, though – maybe I'll write one more chapter during the weekend, but then it's back to school for me on Monday, so expect a longer wait!

In other news, the architectural stuff in this chapter is pretty basic (it had to be, so you guys would understand what it is about) just one dialogue, but I had to add a few descriptions of things. I want to become an architect myself, so I thought it was pretty cool to have a little dialogue about these things.

Oh, and more Erik-Christine interactions! I see some serious relationship building up! Heh.

**starnat** – You can bet that it is! I hated Luciana in the book. She was such a brat! Heh, it was kinda obvious where I got the idea, huh?

**SimplyElymas** – too true. I haven't seen one fic where he's a teen… but I suppose there weren't enough plot-bunnies. All that jazz? Chicago fan? I loved the movie. Thanks and read on.

**MagickAlianne**– heh, thank you. A compliment from my managers is always pleasing. :-) Erik is 15, as he is in the book, which you probably haven't read. Many thanks & here you go!

**Enrinye** – hey, you know well how much I love Erik – writing him badly would be unacceptable! He'd Punjab me! Heh, you deem all my works masterpieces, Z. But I can't say I'm ungrateful. Read on!

**longblacksatinlace** – I actually need one pretty major male character in the storyline later on, for reasons I'm not allowed to tell! It could be Raoul… it would actually work pretty well… but I might add an original character there instead. I'll decide later! Oh, you can't being to imagine how complicated this is going to get! Here you go!

X X X

**Chapter IV **

X X X X

Over the next few days, Christine would often come to the site some more, if only to say hi to Giovanni and the few workers she had been introduced to. Her presence was somewhat relaxing, since she took care to be polite to everyone. The workers, young and old, never ceased to be amazed at how she could care about everyone's petty troubles and have a kind word at the ready whenever needed.

It was no surprise to anyone when the buyer was overjoyed at the final look of the marble statue and though Giovanni, knowing that it wouldn't be good to tell that a thirteen year old girl was the "genius" the man praised so much, refused to reveal the artist's identity, the client insisted that the rest of the decorations should match this one. And that required more sketches from the same artist.

Christine agreed to do it, if only to have a good reason to stay away from the house. Luciana was now either melancholic or furious, with no in-between moods, kind only when there was no one else in the house. Her despair and anguish was something Christine pitied, but after what Giovanni told her, she was determined not to get involved in this personal conflict between those two.

Giovanni watched them both carefully, even though they didn't notice. Erik insisted that if nothing would change, she was free to come. Yes, nothing changed… except for the atmosphere. In the presence of a girl, all seemed a bit quieter, a bit more organized. And the change of the atmosphere was also visible.

Though she was spending quite a lot of time at the site, she scarcely saw Erik, not that it bothered her. It would be a… distraction that would have terrible consequences, because she realized she found him intriguing in a way she didn't quite understand. And even when they met, they never talked, except for the very rare occasions when politeness demanded that they greet each other.

It was the day she was working on the tops of the pillars they were going to use that they really spoke for the first time. The Greek column designs she was holding in her hands – she was supposed to enhance them somehow, make them more unique – already seemed too decorated to her.

"Perhaps you should try the Ionic style instead. The Corinthian might be a bit too much, with all the statues around it." Erik noted from behind her. Everyone working on the site was getting used to these sudden appearances, so they tried to be on their guard… mostly unsuccessfully.

Christine didn't turn around – she scowled at the designs. "As much as I would like to choose simplicity, the person buying the house seems to be determined to bring baroque to a whole new level."

"The floral designs on the Corinthian are decorative enough. You might want to try adding something to the lower half of the column, distasteful as it sounds."

"Yes, but that won't be baroque anymore, it would be a complete mish-mash of styles. And you can't simply add what you want, where you want."

"Why? Because it is an architectural dogma that Greek columns must look like that?"

Finally, she turned around, lowering the papers in her hand. "Because the Greeks had a reason for not making the whole column decorated. It is a bit gothic, in a sense – the shaft is supposed to be slim and tall, giving you an illusion of heights. Only the top can be decorated, because it symbolizes the heavens… or Olymp, since we're talking about Ancient Greece." Most of the people who were close enough to hear the conversation were listening to every word.

"If you destroy that design with a new one, adding something where it's not supposed to be, it loses its meaning, its symbolism – you might as well even rename it, because it wouldn't be a Greek column anymore."

"I very much doubt someone who doesn't know about history or culture would recognize that. And how can you tell it's not supposed to be there or what it's meant to symbolize?" he challenged. "It could also mean that only the rich, the "top" of the society was allowed to live in beauty. Or it can be simply an image of the artist's fantasy. Or it could simply be just as it was – the capital of the column. It has to be decorative, because it would seem too dull and ordinary if it wasn't there."

"Liar." Now everyone stopped doing whatever they were pretending to be doing and listened intensely. There was probably no one within miles who would dare talk to Erik like that, much less a young girl. The only person who wasn't (or didn't seem) taken aback and surprised was Erik himself, who simply folded his arms and waited for her explanation.

"You know very well that the capital has its own geometrical design – it wouldn't work out otherwise. If anything, adding something would ruin the symmetry. It would be a disaster."

He smiled slightly – of course she was correct, even if she didn't know the exact wording of the books that wrote of how the columns were supposed to be decorated. But he was quick to educate her.

"The Corinthian Capital is composed of three rows of Acanthus leaves and foliage that sit directly below scrolls propelling out at forty-five degree angles. This added capital decoration has a tendency to make the Corinthian column look the most slender and most ornate of all classic Greek colonnade." Was his calm recitation.

"Many civilizations have attempted to duplicate the classic styles, such as the Romans with their Tuscan and Composite styles of columns, but the older and more decorative Greek pillars continue to prevail as the most popular style of architecture and design." Christine added, "And if they haven't succeeded in centuries of designing, I doubt I shall succeed in a day. All I can change is the type of leaves and even that will be difficult."

"You seem to know quite a lot of columns."

"This common rudimentary knowledge?" she laughed merrily, "All I am saying is that I cannot accept your suggestion, for these logical reasons. I am no architect, Erik, I have only my eyes and instinct to tell me what's right and what's wrong."

"Then be proud of your eyes, Christine." The classical graceful twirl of his cape and he was gone.

After this, only after this did Christine notice the silence that was surrounding her. Every pair of eyes within a hundred meters of her was watching her. And she was quite certain that if they would only dared to do so while Erik was nearby, they would have applauded her.

It became somewhat of a custom to go to her with any problems the workers had. They addressed her "miss Christine" with utter respect afterwards, and she knew whenever someone came with the now famous line:

"Miss Christine, could you please help me?"

It meant that there was something they needed to discuss with Erik, but, as everyone else except for Giovanni, they were too frightened to even approach him. And asking the master for help in such a matter was more than childish. Christine was sort of neutral ground – she was related to the master, so she had to know a fair bit about masonry and architecture, judging by the way she spoke and she had the confidence to stand up to Erik's temper, facing fire with the calmness of a diplomat.

Eventually, she was spending more time listening to pleas, searching for Erik and talking to him than she did sketching. It didn't bother her, though – the workers who entrusted her with negotiations seemed to be more relaxed when they knew there was someone who would deal with their problems effectively.

As for Erik, he was angered, at first, that the masons would use Christine as their errand girl and bother her with petty troubles, but realized that it was easier to converse with her than with anxious and nervous men who were shrinking underneath his gaze. Perhaps it was because she was ignorant to his brooding presence or simply viewed him differently, since she wasn't dependant on him that she talked to him as one would talk to an equal.

It was regrettable, however, that he never found out much about her – the concerns of others seemed to be her primary concern, then came her own troubles. He would occasionally watch her drawing in the middle of the controlled chaos around her, then one of the workers would approach her and he knew that he would have a chat with her very soon.

Again, it was nearing dark and the majority of the workers went for dinner. As always, Erik stayed at the site, double-checking the day's work. Trust was one of the things he lacked, since he knew that as much as he would want to, he wouldn't be able to be everywhere at once and therefore couldn't supervise all of the work.

The sound of footsteps on the wooden steps didn't startle him much, since Giovanni occasionally came upstairs to talk to him during his routine check of the work, but the sound of a gown swishing was surprising. He turned his head slightly to see that it was Christine who had arrived, looking around.

"Erik, are you here?" she called, since it was already quite dark in the windowless part of the building.

"What do I owe the honor of the visit?" was the reply from the shadows.

Christine turned her head to the direction of the voice, her face slightly concerned. "You won't be eating again?"

"I scarcely need food." Erik noted, finally putting away the tools and stepping out of the shadows. "Is that all you came to ask, Christine?"

"Always straight to the point." she sighed, "The truth is, yes. I am simply concerned for your well-being. It seems unusual that you don't seem to eat or sleep at all and yet you work so much."

"There are many 'unusual' things about me and I can assure you that this is probably the least important of them. But your concern is appreciated." Erik paused for a moment, then asked what had been on his mind for some time. "The workers have grown fond of you, it seems. But I still don't understand why you burden yourself with their troubles."

"I suppose I have been brought up to care. My father has always told me that I must be kind to people, if I want them to be kind to me. We were poor, so I suppose kindness is the only thing that kept us alive. Kindness and music."

"Music?"

"Oh, yes. My father was a violinist. They said he was the best in Europe. But he didn't play for fame or fortune. He played because he loved his music and wanted to be happy." It seemed that she cut herself off mid-thought when she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm wasting your time. I'll go find my uncle."

This didn't seem like a waste of time to him. "No, wait." She stopped and turned back to him. "Tell me about your father."

Surprised, Christine continued, "His name was Gustave Daaé and he was Swedish. I never knew my mother, so it was just the two of us traveling together – we didn't have a permanent home. He used to tell me all sorts of stories of the north when I was little."

"Fairytales?"

"You could say that. I believed in them, though. And most of all, in the Angel of Music."

"I didn't know music has an angel."

"It's a childish story, it would bore you."

"No, please continue."

"The Angel of Music is supposed to come to little children and guide their voices. There was the story of Little Lotte, who was fortunate enough to be visited by the Angel. And when she wondered what she liked best, she said that what she liked best was when she was asleep in her bed and the Angel of Music was singing songs in her head." Christine smiled, "Father promised he would send the Angel to me, as he lay dying."

"And has this angel of yours visited you yet?"

"Angels stay in Heaven, little girls who dream must return to earth. I live with my head in the clouds, but I'm old enough to see that there is no Angel of Music… and if there is, he hasn't visited me and never will."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"I'm too old now. And I don't believe in fairytales anymore. I promised father I would study voice, but my singing, just as my sketching, is sloppy."

"Others don't seem to think so."

"Others don't know what is right or wrong."

"Sing, then, and I shall tell you what is right and what is wrong about your voice. My mother… she used to be a singer. I sometimes showed her how certain things are to be sung." Erik answered the unasked question, moving from the subject of his mother as quickly as possible. Questions about her were not desirable. "I should be able to tell you what you sound like."

Uncertain, Christine searched her memory once again for a suitable song. The mention of angels and her father reminded her of the song she sang at his funeral… it was a sad song, but it was suitable and the memories brought back emotions that would be easily expressed with the lyrics.

_An angelface smiles to me  
Under a headline of tragedy  
That smile used to give me warmth  
Farewell - no words to say  
beside the cross on your grave  
and those forever burning candles_

_Needed elsewhere  
to remind us of the shortness of our time  
Tears laid for them  
Tears of love, tears of fear  
Bury my dreams, dig up my sorrows  
Oh, Lord why  
the angels fall first_

_Not relieved by thoughts of Shangri-La  
Nor enlightened by lessons of Christ  
I'll never understand the meaning of the right  
Ignorance lead me into the light_

_Needed elsewhere  
to remind us of the shortness of our time  
Tears laid for them  
Tears of love, tears of fear  
Bury my dreams, dig up my sorrows  
Oh, Lord why  
the angels fall first_

_Sing me a song  
of your beauty  
of your kingdom  
Let the melodies of your harps  
caress those whom we still need_

_Yesterday we shook hands  
My friend  
Today a moonbeam lightens my path  
My guardian_

By the time she was finished, she was completely unaware of her surroundings, both mentally and physically, since she could scarcely see through the tears in her eyes. She remembered she was not alone and quickly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown.

Erik was silent, simply looking at her, as he had for the whole time she kept singing. There was much talent in that girl, but also much pain. And pain was something he knew well. Pain he could identify with, understand it, see it. Healing was the only thing about pain he couldn't yet do.

"Your timbre and pitch are both acceptable, your range would need work. The emotion you put into it makes up for much of the imperfections. Your voice is good, Christine. But it could be much more than that."

Christine managed a smile, even though her eyes were slightly red now. "I would need the Angel of Music to fix my voice."

"Then since the original seems to be taking a vacation, we will have to get a substitute. If you are willing to work on it, I would be honored to help you with it, Christine."

She frowned. "I would like that, but why help me like this? You already do work that even three would find exhausting."

"This wouldn't be work. This would be a pleasure." Erik retorted, a gleam of a challenge in his eyes. Christine recognized it, nodding.

"As I said, I would like that." she then smiled, "Perhaps Papa wasn't wrong after all. Goodnight, my Angel." And, unwilling to allow him to protest, she turned on her heel and scurried away down the stairs.

Erik stared after her for a few seconds, even though she disappeared. An angel. She deemed him an angel. She knew next to nothing about him and yet decided to trust him. If she would ever find out… no. Like Giovanni, she would see only what she needed to see. Only what he would allow her to see. The loss of either of them wasn't something he would be able to accept, because one was tied to the other.

But while he clearly knew what Giovanni meant to him, Christine was something he couldn't place quite yet. To others, she was a friend. But to him, the fact that such a kind, pretty, talented, _normal_ girl was treating him friendly, looking at him without fear, was something almost beyond comprehension.

It was a wonderful dream from which he didn't want to wake up. And if Giovanni and Christine – the merciful God and his kind archangel – would accept him with the masks, because he couldn't hope they would accept him without them, Hell could perhaps turn into Heaven once more.


	5. Chapter V

**Author's notes:** Aargh! Luciana the Brat returns! I had to put her in somewhere and I decided to base this scene on her encounter with Giovanni, though this takes place later. Those awaiting a jealous scene or her reaction, here it goes. Please don't kill me!

Anyhow, brace yourselves for an Erik-less chapter! But I promise he will be back in the next one – this dialogue just got too long and I didn't want to cut it. And there will be singing lessons later, don't you worry!

Purgatory will be updated soon!

**starnat**– thanks & read on!

**SimplyElymas** – heh, thanks. The interaction was tough – I didn't want Christine to seem too much of a prodigy – she's smart, but not a know-it-all.

**Enrinye** – no jasné, keďže som to viac-menej stiahla z netu… ale hej, bolo to skvelé! Anyhow, back to English! Ahem.

**longblacksatinlace**– your wish has hereby come true. Read on!

X X X

**Chapter V**

X X X X

Waking up thirsty in the middle of the night, Christine decided to see if they had anything to drink. She preferred tea, but was willing to accept almost anything at this very moment. That, of course, required a journey downstairs in the dark. For a moment, she tried to shun away the dryness of her throat, but then decided to risk it.

Christine was afraid of the dark. It was childish, she knew it, but she always reasoned that there could be frightening things hidden in the shadows. She held her hand against the wall as she crept quietly to the stairs, since she didn't want to wake anyone by lightening a candle. Besides, she didn't trust herself not to drop it right now – she was way too tired.

On the way down, however, she noticed a figure curled on the stairs, alone. Her feet were bare and she seemed to be on the verge of shivering due to the thinness of her nightgown, but nonetheless Luciana sat there on the cold stone, listening with a fierce intensity, with a fear that something would happen if she would miss one note, one sound.

"Luciana?" Only after that did she finally notice the presence of another, startled at first, but then managed a weary smile.

"Oh, hello, Christine." There was a sadness in her voice that she had never spoken with before, at least to Christine's knowledge. "Papa got used to me sitting here sometimes, I didn't know you were up."

"What are you doing here at this hour?" Christine asked, half-demanding the answer, half-wondering what bizarre explanation her cousin might have for this odd ritual.

But Luciana raised a finger to her lips quickly, her eyes widening with an excitement that was almost morbid. "Listen­… the melody is changing… he is playing another song now…"

Music surrounded them, flowing from the distance and Christine could vaguely sense it was coming from the cellar. It was a… spinet, if she was still able to identify instruments correctly. There used to be a spinet in the house, she remembered, but no one played it anymore. A single instrument in the house – it was only logical that Erik would wish to study it and play it whenever possible.

Fascinating, in a way – she was beginning to wonder if he was mortal at all, because he didn't seem to be bound by the physical needs of a human being.

"Every day, he plays." Luciana explained, continuing, "His music is so wonderful, but also sad… compared to what he does, I feel very insignificant." A sigh. "I am insignificant to him."

Finally, Christine decided to interrupt her. She didn't like where this was going. "You are wrong, you aren't insignificant to him."

How could a persistent pestering child be insignificant? Christine quickly pushed that thought out of her mind. True, Luciana could be a menace, a nuisance, even, but that gave her no right to think like this! She promised to herself that she wouldn't mess with this! It wasn't her concern, not her concern at all!

Luciana's almost dreamy eyes sobered a bit when they finally found Christine's. "_You _aren't insignificant to him, Christine. He likes you."

She didn't know whether to splutter or laugh at the very idea. Absurd! Unthinkable! There was no reason, no proof for such a childish statement – Luciana was either very tired or very confused. Most likely both. And when you add the pain because of continued rejection and wounded pride, it almost made sense. It was logical that she would be jealous at each and every person Erik talked with without the guarded politeness he used with her and all others he expected nothing but ridicule and cruelty from. Not without reason, mind you.

"You're tired, you have no idea what you're saying. Come, I will help you get back to bed, you must rest." She made a move to touch Luciana's arm, but stopped the moment she saw the strange wariness, passionate devotion to her observation and a flicker of jealousy that passed through Luciana's chocolate eyes.

"He came up when he heard you sing. He never comes up unless he needs something and that isn't very often." Her persistence was immense.

"Liking a voice is different from liking a person!" Christine almost wanted to slap herself after that. In her impatience and eagerness to end this discussion, she almost yelled the words at her cousin, who was to be pitied, not shouted at.

"And he uses your name." Luciana finished, her voice bitter. "I heard him talking to Papa once. He uses your name."

Christine sighed quietly. "You know I asked him to do that. If you would politely ask, he would probably oblige."

Even though she seemed to consider it, Luciana shook her head defiantly. "It is the sound that matters, the way he says the word. When he says your name, he speaks it softly, deftly, like a prayer. He calls me mademoiselle, but it is so cold and distant, I want to cry." And she did cry, large tears dropping on her nightgown, her eyes wider and redder with each moment. "Why can't he love me like he loves music and the metal gadgets he makes? Why?"

Openly crying now, Christine embraced her, but Luciana found no comfort in the gesture. It was almost impossible for her to comprehend the fact that Christine could be that oblivious to the affectionate way in which Erik spoke of her, the sudden spark in his eyes she viewed as empty when they bore to her. Empty like a starless sky.

She was overjoyed to see the change, yet grief-stricken that it wasn't because of her, that she did nothing to make him happy or at least comfortable in the house. She realized well that she must be causing him pain with the way she treated him, but, unused to not having what she wanted, it was the only way she imagined he would ever notice her.

Unexpectedly, at least in her eyes, it had the opposite effect of what she wished. Though it was painfully obvious that Erik, aware that he was falling in love with a spiteful, shallow child that could give him nothing of what he desired – no love, no true affection, was trying to escape from the emotion, trying to cure himself from what he must have viewed as a tormenting sickness, Luciana remained ensnared by the mystery of him, by the sensuality and grace of his every gesture and the hypnotic power of his unique voice.

She might have been the first to view him this way…but she certainly wouldn't be the last. Giovanni knew that now. And Christine was slowly beginning to realize it as well.

She had come to realize that the depressions that were slowly claiming Luciana were creeping into her mind as well. Fighting them was easier for her, being able to see that it wasn't healthy to latch on to this dream, but in the end, she knew that when the inevitable parting would come, it would be much harder for her to get over all of this, to escape the shadows in her mind in which he always lurked.

Mature, at least inwardly, she was beginning to realize that her heart was slowly betraying her, though her mind maintained its defenses. Her cousin was a prime example of how easy it was to succumb to Erik's subconscious charms and she feared above all other things that there would be a point in her life when she would realize she had succumbed as well… and a moment when she would know she didn't really care.

It wasn't a good idea to accept the voice lessons she had agreed on, but at that very moment, overcome by the returning grief and a new need for someone to guide her, she couldn't find the strength to refuse.

Luciana tore herself from the embrace, trying hard to smile. She succeeded in creating a grimace that was frightening and yet sorrowful.

The sound of the spinet had faded.

"I suppose I should go to bed now – I know Papa doesn't like that I keep listening here. Sometimes I think he doesn't want me around him… but I want to be around him! I begged him not to send me back to the sisters. I would die, Christine, I know I would die if I would leave… I would miss him too much… and when you return to Paris, I will miss you as well… he will miss you too, I know… he will not smile again when you are gone…"

"Luciana…"

"When… when you leave, do you think he will be as nice to me as he is to you?" Luciana's whispers were almost hysterical, in their sad way. "I want him to be nice to me, Christine. I really, really want that."

Managing a weak, almost frightened smile, Christine nodded. "I know."

"What does he say to you?" The hungry nature of the question, passionate, was a great change from the sad babbling she was expecting to continue for some time.

"Why does it matter to you, Luciana?"

"So I can know what to talk to him about!" It was almost snappish, with an why-else-would-it-matter undertone. "Once he finishes the bench I wanted, I want to be able to sit there, watering the flowers occasionally, but most importantly, I want him to talk to me…" she sighed, "I am running out of ideas."

"Do you know anything of architecture? History? Music?"

The laugh of a response was almost full of self-pity.

"Is that what you speak of?"

Christine nodded, not quite understanding what she was getting at. "What else did you think we would talk about? When I come to seek him out, it is mostly because one of the workers at the site needs something, but they are too afraid to tell him." She realized too late she should keep her sincerity in check.

Luciana almost gasped. "You never told me that!"

"I left you notes when I left the house."

"I noticed those and read them, but I didn't know you talk this much… I thought you just wanted to go see Papa, he said you were drawing some pretty things with him, helping him… you didn't mention this to me." she frowned, "Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why didn't you tell me this? You knew I would have liked to know!"

Christine closed her eyes for a moment, relaxing. This was getting out of hand… too much out of hand. She might as well accuse her of being coquettish and doing this on purpose just to sadden her. When she finally opened her eyes, she faced the accusation calmly.

"Luciana, pardon me, but I had no idea I am supposed to tell you everything that is happening around me, everything that I say or do and everything I speak of. If you must know, I never spoke of you when in his presence, because like your father, I am aware that he isn't comfortable with that. Don't you see that you are driving him out of his mind with the constant demands?"

She was taking sides now, but it was mostly because anger was building up within her. The conversation was taking a wrong turn… she could see Luciana's eyes widening, but not with rage. Her cousin was too delicate to be angered. It seemed that only now did she realize that there could be some truth in the cruel accusation and that not everything is as dreamy as she pictured it.

"You… you don't mean that." she objected weakly, "That isn't true."

Christine sighed, "Luciana, please think about it. He isn't avoiding you because you aren't pretty enough."

For a moment, excitement reached her glassy orbs. "He isn't?" her voice was still meek.

"No, but that doesn't mean he finds your presence desirable."

"Why?"

"Because you insist upon it."

Luciana lowered her eyes, her chin laid on her knees. It was true, she knew, but she didn't want to know. She didn't want to see. Was it a crime to like someone, to want to be in their presence? This was the only thing that messed up Christine's theories. No, she wouldn't stop… she wasn't able to stop. Perhaps after the summer, there would be a change in the house. Christine was blind to it only because she wasn't there for very long. And it would be a change for the better, Luciana hoped. Maybe now, Erik would acknowledge the need for company. And if Christine wouldn't be there… no, those were bad thoughts. Her cousin meant no harm. But she did it, no matter how unintentionally. Yet maybe it was just the kind of harm she could use.

The spinet suddenly began again, soft music echoing from the darkness. It was a new tune, one Luciana hadn't heard before. There was a loving nature in it, something that she didn't hear in any of the previous compositions. It wasn't lonely and broken anymore.

She sighed. It was beautiful music. And a tiny part of her mind had to acknowledge that it wasn't meant for her or inspired by her. A part of her knew that if she would be listening to music that described Erik's impression of her, it would probably be cold or enraged.

It saddened her more than anything.

"I sometimes wish I were you, Christine." she said suddenly, "You can sing so prettily, you saw more of the world that I ever will…you are far more educated than I… and, deny it all you want, you mean something to him."

"Do not…"

But Luciana shook her head. "There is no point." She didn't finish the thought. Then, "But I don't think you came here looking for me, did you, Christine?" Finally, after an eternity of bitterness, she managed another smile, this time slightly happy. And she felt better to get part of her troubles off her chest.

"No," Christine tried to return the smile, but didn't have the strength. A yawn overcame her. "I came for something to drink."

"There should still be some tea in the kitchen… I will fetch it, I want you to listen to the music. No, I want you to stay." She commanded as Christine opened her mouth to object. "Listen." And she was gone.

But she returned ten minutes later, when Christine was already worried what had happened to her, with the tea she had promised. Most of those minutes were spent watching what effect the music would have on Christine.

The longing she thought she saw in her eyes wasn't what she was hoping for, but it was what she had been expecting. And hidden jealousy stung her heart again – she had guessed that it was their guest that had managed to change the music and its composer so dramatically.


	6. Chapter VI

**Author's notes:** I have a major test on Monday, so no more updates till then. Wish me luck! By the way, here is the update – it's the first lesson, hopefully it's good.

**_EDIT: Thanks to H. Sibelius for the review and the correction. I´ll stick with simply "dark brown" :-) Oh, and by the way, I just browsed the phantomoftheopera . com sorting thread and you found outyou thought I was like Kay´s Erik (I´m TheAngelsRose there), so I have to thank you for making me happy - in the middle of studying math, it really made my night. (And yes, I´m quoting Erik again. :-)))) )_**

**H. Sibelius** – (cheers)

**longblacksatinlace** – And that's just the beginning… read on!

**Enrinye** Must you keep reminding me of that, Z? Well, maybe she's not a psycho, but she's a spoiled brat. I don't like her. And yes, he was there, but had no real interaction with other characters. I hope I got him right in this chapter... just don´t sue me! Heh. Thanks and read on.

**Mina** – well I'm certainly not going to have him end up with Luciana – that would be a B-A-D ending. :-)))

**starnat**– yep… but it'll be okay… I hope. Read on!

X X X

**Chapter VI **

X X X

The day after the conversation with Luciana, Christine found a rather quickly scribbled note hidden among her sketches, informing her only that she should go home earlier and get some sleep, so she would be well rested for the first lesson. It seemed that anything could mysteriously appear or disappear when it came to Erik, so finding the note didn't even startle her anymore. But she did as she was told to, leaving the site earlier than usual. She also wanted to see how Luciana was doing – the last encounter left her worried.

When she arrived back home, the Italian girl was apparently trying to cook something. Christine held back a sigh – Giovanni had told her that Luciana seemed to be convinced that she was able to run the house on her own, but she had never quite believed that it would come to this. She had actually dismissed the housekeeper in the morning, but Christine didn't tell Giovanni, partially because she was mentally elsewhere, partially because she tied to distance herself from these things.

Luciana noticed her when the door closed, smiling from the kitchen. "Welcome back home! You're early." she was about to frown, but waved whatever she was about to say off. "All the better – you can be the first to try my soup! You wouldn't believe how hard this cooking thing can get."

"I'm sure it's delicious, but I would like to get some sleep – I'm afraid I am unused to midnight escapades." The added explanation was to sate Luciana's curiosity and hopefully wipe the frown from her face.

"You're pretty pale – certainly some food would do you good." she insisted.

But Christine laughed. "Luciana, I am Swedish! I'm always ghost-like – it runs in the blood, I suppose. I can't say I'd look healthier after eating, even if I would eat all you've cooked thus far."

"Point taken." With a sigh, Luciana nodded. "I'll let you off this time. But tomorrow you'll have to eat something!" A mischievous scheming smile accompanied that statement. "I'll save some for you, I've made enough to sate even Papa's appetite, which is saying something." Again, she frowned, "Could you by any chance be able to tell if Erik will like the food?"

The question startled Christine a bit, but then she shrugged. "Considering I never see him eat, I can't say. But it looks good." She added to lighten the mood a bit before biding her cousin goodnight and heading for her room.

All in all, she got about two hours of sleep. A light sleeper, even the slightest disturbance from downstairs was more than enough to wake her up. Judging by the noises, Erik had arrived, closely followed by Giovanni, who had to calm Luciana after the boy quickly slipped from her grasp and into the safety of his cellar, taking only a very simple meal with him, not even sparing her or her "work" as much as a second glance.

Naturally, that wasn't at all to her liking.

Christine could hear the wailing all the way upstairs, Giovanni's futile attempts to soothe his daughter's temperament and Luciana's angry screams full of self-pity. At the point when she couldn't bear to hear more, because the screams had turned into anguished cries and then faded into pained whispers, she decided it was a good moment to fulfill the later part of the instructions, so she snuck downstairs, unnoticed not because of her own stealth, but because of the situation and cautiously slipped into the cellar.

"Erik?" she called softly, since her conscience was telling her that sneaking in like a thief wasn't at all right, especially when there was no way she would remain undetected – Erik's reflexes and senses were almost abnormally good.

There were many shelves and desks around, containing various objects – some books, music sheets, many sketches and plans, plus things she assumed were the "metal gadgets" Luciana mentioned. While certainly not a science genius, Christine saw that it had to be a study of some sort, because there were similarities in the construction of some of the machines…

"You're early." The sound of a candle being lit echoed in the silence of the cellar. Christine turned in time to see the light bathe the room in gold. Much of the shadows disappeared and she finally relaxed as Erik placed the candelabra on one of the less covered desks.

"There is too much noise up there."

Turning to her for a brief moment, Erik smiled bitterly. "These things do happen. The mademoiselle is rather… emotionally unstable, it seems. Not that I have anything against your cousin." He added a bit hastily and began searching for a particular music sheet.

Looking at her feet, Christine nodded, almost timidly. "I know. I worry for her. She has changed since the last time I saw her… and it is almost frightening to watch. I understand you two don't have the best of relationships." She was almost sure he snorted quietly, even though he had his back turned to her. "And though it isn't my concern… I am sorry for her behavior."

"You are right – it isn't your concern." The undertone wasn't all harsh; rather, it was almost pained. This obviously wasn't a topic to be discussed at this time.

And it was true – the last thing Erik wanted to talk about right now was the person creating the ear-piercing shrieks that often distracted him from his work, even late at night. It pained him to see Luciana depressed and anguished like this, but she had no idea that her own pain was but a fraction of what he felt. The frivolous child was simply hurting herself – he was doing nothing. If she simply understood that he didn't come near her not because he wouldn't want to, but because he knew she was far out of reach, the image of innocence he could never touch, perhaps she would stop pestering him.

But that would require her to either see what lied underneath his mask – which would scare her out of her mind and force him to leave the house – or learn of his past, in which case he would also have to leave, because Giovanni wouldn't let a murderer stay under his roof. He trusted the elderly mason, true, but knew that no matter how good his intentions might be and how much he might care for a boy who seemed to be but a gypsy street urchin when they met, the moment he would reveal either of these secrets, the dream he was living in, the dream that he was accepted and loved, would fade and he would once again be alone.

Then there was… her.

From the moment Christine Daaé entered his life, nothing was the same. There was something… some pain that tugged his heart each time he saw her, some illness that invaded his mind each time she spoke with him, threatening to attack his sanity if he didn't… he didn't know what to do to stop the… the virus that was spreading quickly. Yes, love was a sickness without a cure – even he, with the entire gypsy healing knowledge and his own skill wasn't able to think of a cure for it.

After the end of August, she would disappear from his life permanently and hopefully Luciana will also return to that school of hers. Then, he would be free of the pain and emotion and will finally be able to get over what happened during the year. Life would go on.

But the conversation about Christine's father caught his interest. Ever since she had arrived, he was ensnared by her voice. She had a voice like an angel and with the proper training, she could astonish the world. It was an impulse that he offered her vocal training, a mistake that he knew he would regret when she would disappear forever… but he wanted to savor each and every moment of her presence while he could. And he offered to help her so that he would be able to be satisfied that he had created something beautiful, that for the short time of a few weeks before she would return to the surroundings of mediocre singers and teachers, his life and his work had a purpose.

Erik finally found the sheet he was looking for, handed it to Christine and sat at the spinet, waiting a few minutes, watching her read the notes and lyrics and memorizing where she should breathe or pause. When she nodded that she was ready, he played the introduction flawlessly on the spinet, knowing the melody by heart – it wasn't too difficult and some parts had to be repeated several times.

It required quite a range, however and Christine had to be stopped several times in the first part alone. As a whole, she got the song well enough for the first try. But what he wanted to find out with this first lesson was if she would be able to follow his instructions – which were certainly different compared to what the musical teachers usually required of her, he imagined – and adjust her voice according to them. If not, then the lessons had no future and it would be better to end them before they even began. The thing was, he wasn't entirely sure if that would bring him relief or dismay.

But, both fortunately and unfortunately, Christine had proven herself an obedient pupil, if not a bit timid, submitting to his wishes easily. It took her a while to understand what he wanted her to do, at first, but once she got used to the strange (at least seemingly strange) methods that sometimes had nothing to do with the technique, she was able to adapt to them fairly easily.

The lesson took about two hours – not that either of them noticed – before Christine could start to feel a bit tired. It was already quite late, but both of them were too immersed in the music and the lesson to care about the physical world. When it began to show on her voice, however, Erik proclaimed that he didn't want her to damage her voice by the sudden "vocal shock" and almost commanded her to get some rest.

"We shall continue tomorrow, at the same time."

"The same song?" Christine asked after nodding.

"Only once you have mastered the basics can you progress to the higher levels, Christine. Think of your training as a building. You cannot simply start from the top. If you keep up and continue progressing as you have today, however, I believe you will one day be able to sing even the grand arias without problems. But first, you must pass through these trials."

Again, Christine nodded, bade him goodnight and turned to leave. Once she reached the top of the stairs, however, she hesitated, debating with herself if she should really do what she was thinking about. After all, it was not a thing to be offered lightly. Then again, she wanted to show him that she appreciated that he was taking the time to instruct her. Besides, she doubted that he would damage it in any way…

"Erik?"

Although a bit surprised that she was still there – he assumed she wanted to be away from the dark (and him – he was a strict teacher) as soon as possible – he turned back to her, putting the papers he was about to sort out away. "Yes?"

"I was just wondering…" There was still time to back out of this… but no, that would make her seem silly. "I was wondering if you happen to play the violin."

His surprise growing, Erik nodded. "I do, yes, but I have no such instrument here. The spinet is the only instrument I have found in the house. Why do you ask?"

"I… well, I have told you that my father was a violinist. When he died, I didn't inherit much, but I got his violin. I have it here, I always carry it with me. I was wondering if you would wish to play it, since you are so musical." A smile was forming in the corners of her lips. "And if you keep this up, that spinet won't last very long."

He was almost stunned now – from what he had heard, Christine's father was her whole world before he died and even now, she still seemed to be mourning. To entrust him with such a personal object as the violin of a famous player was brave of her, to say at least. And, as a tiny part of his mind reminded him, it showed that she trusted him more than he knew.

"Christine… while I won't deny that it would be wonderful to play such a quality instrument, are you certain about this?" Why was he even asking that! Such an offer was not to be refused or questioned! "I know your father meant a lot to you and if I would somehow damage the violin… it isn't my intention to upset you."

"Damage it?" She was laughing! "From what I have seen, I would say you would rather cut your arms off than damage anything that has something to do with music!" Then she finally smiled. "I know you will be careful."

Still a little stupefied, he nodded and thanked her. Christine almost bolted from the cellar, heading for her room and returned a few minutes later, along with a violin case, which she handed to Erik, begging him to be careful with it. When he opened it, he found within it a dark brown violin with several hand-carved decorations. It was clearly used, but certainly didn't look old or unplayable. In fact, if he didn't have a good eye and didn't look closely enough, he would say that it was brand new.

He glanced at Christine before even touching the instrument, brushing his fingers against it only after she nodded in approval. Gently, he took it out of the case, still admiring it for a few minutes before he even began thinking of what to play. By then, Christine silently stood up, preparing to leave – she didn't want to disturb him now, especially when she knew the violin was in good hands.

But Erik noticed her leaving and looked up sharply. She really had to trust him to leave him with such an object. If anything, it was polite to thank her.

"Christine." His voice rang out strongly, despite its newfound softness. Christine turned and her jaw almost dropped to see him looking at her with such immense gratitude. And if she were standing closer, she would be able to see the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

"Yes?" It was a whisper, choked by the realization that he was actually crying… or almost crying.

His attempt to smile through the tears was quite successful. "Thank you."

"No… thank you. For being my Angel of Music." Christine finally regained enough of her senses to smile.

"Would you like me to play for you?" he suddenly asked, before she could move even an inch.

Staying was a bad idea – it was late, she had to get up in the morning and Giovanni or Luciana could get worried when they wouldn't find her. But the sight of Erik like this wasn't something that was seen every day and she couldn't bring herself to ruining the moment of joy. While her mind screamed at her that she was supposed to flee as far as she could if she was to defend herself against this emotional assault, her heart took away her strength. She nodded and sat down at the chair opposing his.

The sudden rush of happiness that flooded Erik's senses seemed to wipe all memory of the torture that he went through in the past months. He hadn't played the violin for so long… but music wasn't something he could forget easily. His mind was searching for a song that would show just how grateful he was for this gesture better than words could and not give away all of his emotions. And he found it, one of his own compositions that reflected the situation perfectly.

He began playing - the violin was of high quality, he would almost say that it was guiding his fingers – and soon also began to sing, softly at first, then with greater strength. Sometimes he would find the courage to look at Christine, who was staring into space with a dreamy flicker in her eyes. But he saw that she was acutely aware of her surroundings, of his presence… and yet she smiled. As the melody progressed, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

By the end of the song, he saw that she was asleep on the chair. She slipped as she stirred in her sleep, but Erik quickly caught her, deciding that it wouldn't be good if she spent the night down in the cellar – fearing for her health and his own sanity. He gently picked her up, as if she were a china doll. Even if she weren't so light, he would have had no problems in carrying her up the stairs and into her room, where he laid her on the bed.

It took him a few minutes to tear his gaze from the sleeping angel – she didn't flinch under his icy touch. And, after a fight with his common sense, he stroked her cheek lightly before retreating – he didn't trust himself to stay any longer, lest he would do something very impulsive.


	7. Chapter VII

**Author's notes:** Sorry for the long wait, here's your dose of DD from dear little me! Oh and yes, rooftop scene coming up soon! Please tell me whether to add Le Fop later on or not… I'm still unsure. And Z., don't even bother voting, I know your answer already. ;-)

**longblacksatinlace** – well, that would have been hard to write. Anyway, more interaction with Luciana in this chapter, hope you enjoy it.

**Enrinye** – you know damned well what it meant, Z., don't play innocent with me. I know what goes on in that little dirty mind of yours. ;-) Heh, "husleeeeeee!" I know, I know. No more tears or soap opera – like stuff. Here ya go.

**starnat**– Heh, read on.

**H. Sibelius** – Fixed & corrected. Thanks and read on.

X X X

**Chapter XVII **

X X X

The lessons progressed without problems, as did the work on the site. When the building was finished, Christine decided to continue sketching only for her own pleasure. She wanted to 'quit', actually, but the workers practically begged her to stay, if only to arrange communications between them and Erik.

Now crawling underneath piles of lyrics and music sheets instead of sketches, she always came around lunchtime to help – it took at least ten minutes before she got a full list of what she was supposed to ask/tell Erik. Giovanni asked her to keep an eye on Luciana in the mornings, if she could, and she obliged. In turn for her companionship, Luciana showed her the most beautiful parts of Rome and the neighbors – an elderly couple – were kind enough to take her to Vatican.

Soon, it became clear that Giovanni was accepting jobs primarily (if not only) for Erik's sake, to grant him more experience. He was training his successor, that much was clear. It was just a matter of time before the boy who turned the apprentice system into mockery in such a short time would become probably the youngest master in history.

Illusions and dreams never lasted for long.

It was a seemingly ordinary day on the site. A new project, a few new workers, a new day… but one of the newcomers seemed horrified since the moment he saw who was in charge. The whole situation unsettled Christine. For the first time, she decided to stay longer and join the workers for dinner, even though they kept a respectable distance between their table and hers. But ever so often they seemed to glance at her and then quickly continue their whispered conversation. Eventually, just as she had decided that she had to ask what this was about, the group approached her timidly.

"Miss Christine, the others and I would like to ask you something."

She lowered her fork, frowned slightly, but nodded. "You seem to be acting oddly today… what's wrong?"

The leader – Gaetan - shifted nervously, "Well… you are on good terms with Erik." She nodded again, but had no idea what significance it had. "We were… well, we were wondering if you ever saw him without the mask."

Her frown deepened. "No, I haven't. And honestly, I care very little. Why?"

"He is a monster!" another man – the horrified newcomer – blurted out, "I was him at the fairs in Florence and, God knows I'm telling the truth, miss, only the Devil could have spawned such a creature, if it isn't the Devil himself!" Some of the other workers nodded frantically.

"And what is it about his face that causes you such fear?" They stared at her as if she were mad, but then remembered that she hadn't seen him and therefore could hardly imagine what he looked like. And so Maurizio, as they introduced the narrator of the terrifying tale, described in great detail what he saw.

"His entire skull was exposed beneath a thin, transparent membrane grotesquely riddled with little blue pulsing veins. Sunken, mismatched eyes and grossly malformed lips, a horrible gaping hole where a nose should have been…"

With each word, the workers paled, some cringing, some staring into space, their eyes widening as they imagined the horrible thing. As for Christine, she was already ghost-skinned, so even if she were frightened, it wouldn't show.

Like Giovanni, she had guessed what was the most probable reason as to why Erik wore his mask at all times. While it was hard to imagine, after spending so much time around him, talking to him, learning to care for him in more ways than one, she found that she hardly cared about his face. After the first week, she barely acknowledged the presence of the mask.

Once Maurizio finished his monologue, all eyes moved to Christine, awaiting her reaction to all of this. They expected her to squeal, scream, cry, or, at the very least, look shocked. The sadness on her face they didn't anticipate.

"It is regrettable that someone so gifted was cursed with such a misfortune." She said, almost calmly, "But it is far sadder that you cannot see beyond the surface."

"You haven't seen him!" It wasn't a yell – it was a terrified whisper of a man crazed with fear. "He is a demon!"

"He is an angel to me. And he is your master. You should treat him as such… from now on, without my help." Sharply, she stood up, her chair almost falling to the ground.

She stormed off, angry and upset, her intention being to find a way home. At this point, she couldn't care less if she was kidnapped right then and there… but fortunately (though she viewed it as her bad luck), Giovanni either heard the swishing of her satin dress or simply saw her and quickly rushed to her. He had to grab her arm to catch her, since she seemed deaf to the sound of her own name.

The elderly mason's eyes almost widened when he saw her silent tears and quick breathing and begged her to explain. Half successful at maintaining some calmness in her already shaking voice, Christine explained what happened, skipping the description Maurizio offered and the worst of the worker's reactions.

When she finished, Giovanni sighed. Of course he realized Erik was hiding some very serious deformity and had hoped that, after earning his full trust, the boy would confide in him, if only to ease the burden within him. But he was not ready to read the signs and with the arrival of Luciana, who had unknowingly stabbed a dagger into his heart and who he didn't want to love anymore and Christine, who became his muse and who he was terrified of at the same time, because it was within her power to twist that dagger sharply (neither Erik nor Christine knew that Giovanni was observant enough to see this), they became even more distant.

"I… I am frightened, uncle." Christine said, holding back a sob.

Raising an eyebrow, Giovanni couldn't help asking: "Of Erik?"

Christine shook her head. "It's this situation… all of it… that scares me. Erik has been nothing but kind to me. He is not a monster. Not to me."

"But, Christine… if it would be true…" He wanted to make sure she meant that. God knows he wanted Erik to be happy and he hadn't seen him like this in… well, he had never seen him quite like when they talked. He watched them occasionally and despite the fact they talked about anything but themselves; he saw they were happy in each other's presence.

Giovanni knew Christine well enough to tell she felt an attraction to the boy, but unlike Luciana, who fell in love with the mystery of him, with the magic of his voice and grace of his moves, Christine admired him as a person and was one of the few people who understood at least part of him through the music they both loved.

Erik was tougher to read.

The boy was without a doubt an enigma – it was no wonder the aura of mystery surrounded him. The mask only added to that fact. He could spend hours silent, simply watching, like a patient predator, at other times, he would be the ultimate storyteller or critic. He worshipped beauty in every form… but worshipping a girl who was the image of an angel in his eyes was new to him.

Giovanni was certain he wouldn't speak to anyone of his feelings, least of all to Christine. In his mind, there was a dogma that no one in the world could ever love him, under any circumstances. The fact that this girl was showing him affection and friendship was confusing him – it conflicted with what he viewed as natural.

Now that Giovanni knew that nothing would change Christine's mind, he felt a sense of relief. With her aid, he could perhaps be able to convince Erik that they truly meant him no harm and wanted to accept him, treat him as family. And if luck would hold and both of them would remain true to their hearts, the master mason was completely sure that if there would come a day he would see those two together, old enough to see what he saw now and legalize their union, he would be the happiest man in the world.

But for now, he was happy to see that this wasn't just a shallow attraction that would fade with time. He escorted Christine home, dreading what would happen at the site the next day. His fears were great… and they soon became true. When the whispered word "monster" reached his ears, all was confirmed. It was only then that he began to fully understand what it meant to be Erik. Only then did he understand a fraction of the pain within him.

A cage seemed to close in around Erik again. Once more he was a feral animal, a lone tiger – and the hyenas were closing in around him, circling him. At any unguarded moment, they could strike, thus constant vigilance became his routine. The strike never came, for the workers knew well of his skill with the knife and his natural authority was enough to help him hold his ground. But he seemed to be but a shadow now and without Christine's comforting presence at the site, which he assumed was because she believed in what the workers were saying, he was easily angered and menacing.

The singing lessons were put on hiatus, the note Christine found on her table informed her one day. That was the moment something in her snapped and she ignored the daily shrieks of Luciana, the feeble attempt to calm her, made by Giovanni. She ran downstairs and straight into the cellar, finding Erik working on the accounts, a bit startled to see her barge in like that.

"We need to talk." Christine quickly said, almost surprised at the calmness of her voice.

Erik nodded and put away his quill. "I suppose you are correct, mademoiselle."

She could hardly believe her ears. "Erik, I thought we were past that! My name Christine and you have every right to address me as such! You have no reason to defer to me or treat me as a superior!"

A small ironic smile played on his lips. "But I must, mademoiselle. What right does a demon have to call an angel by her name?"

Christine stood there, dumbstruck. He called her an angel, which was the highest possible praise, he called himself a demon, which he clearly assumed she thought him to be… from angry to happy to despairing was her quickest transformation ever.

"_Monsieur,_ when will you understand that I care nothing about what others may say about you? When will you understand what if I was frightened or repulsed, I wouldn't be here, with you, Erik? Is your vision really so narrow that you can see only hate and are blind to love!"

She didn't and didn't have to say any more. Erik was staring at her, motionless, latching onto each word, savoring the sweet music that he was hearing. He dared to believe – yes, he actually dared to believe – that she was telling the truth. And even if she was probably hardly thinking about what she was saying, too desperate to even realize she was almost openly admitting love, he couldn't care less. Speechless, he watched her turn on her heel, in tears, and dash from the cellar.

Some time later, Giovanni came and found him with the accounts, already packed to leave. He still thought it would be better to leave… but the elderly mason immediately snapped at him that he had never seen such absurd drama and later on, they were both drinking wine and Giovanni was talking to him about various things, from masonry to the psychology of young women, eventually giving him a silver compass that was from the happy days before Luciana's birth, something to hold on to, a symbol of some hope.

The offer of a crucifix would be too soon, but Erik accepted this token with humble, flattering gratitude that made even Giovanni feel a bit uneasy, in a good way. Erik was actually surprised he managed to pocket the compass on the second time, since he felt very dizzy – he was used to many things from his time with the gypsies, but alcohol wasn't one of them and drinking so much on the first try was a bad idea. Even in this state, he managed to maintain some awareness of what was happening, but he felt that if he would close his eyes now, he might not open them till morning.

"Get yourself off to bed, boy, you're well and truly shipped," Giovanni said ruefully, obviously aware of what was happening. Struggling to walk straight and get to the stairs without tripping over his own feet or hitting the wall, Erik was soon called back. Leaning a bit against the doorframe for support, his eyes a bit unfocused. Giovanni's voice was a muffed echo now, but he tried his best to listen to it.

"Erik ... I hope you'll never become so good at building walls that you can't see when they need to be pulled down."

The echo seemed to be coming from various directions now and he wasn't exactly sure where the master mason was standing, so he simply stared into space uncertainly. "I'll ... see to that first thing, sir," he muttered, as though he hoped that was the appropriate reply. Afterwards, Giovanni let him go, clearly seeing that anything he would say now would have no effect and soon, the drowsiness would overcome him.

The summer dragged on and Luciana soon became like a curious newborn that wanted to understand the world in a day. Angry confusion often took over and she snapped at things she didn't see or understand. Erik hardly ever came home anymore, spending long hours at the site, using lanterns to light the scaffolding after dark. Some nights he did not come home at all.

Christine kept spending hours at a time locked in her room, refusing to come out, singing quietly to herself about various things that made no sense when Giovanni sometimes listened behind the door. But when he repeatedly heard her calling to some Angel of Music and crying afterwards, he began to understand that there was some form of connection between the times he went to check on her during the night and saw an empty bed and the sounds of opera music constantly being repeated coming from the cellar.

One morning, he woke to hear their voices from the cellar. Seconds after he came to the stairs, Christine followed, distinctively frightened of something. Giovanni then realized it was Erik's voice she was frightened of, because she learned to distinguish his various moods through it. And the voice they heard was defensive and chilling, a sound he didn't use to punish even the sloppiest of workers. But Luciana's voice was petulant, with a hint of angry tears, ignorant to the danger around her.

"What are all these things anyway? What do they do?" Apparently she wanted to know what all of his inventions – the wonderful little gadgets that began to gather dust because their creator was spending as much time away from the house as possible.

"Please leave them alone, mademoiselle." The plea was more of a command, but Luciana was oblivious to that.

"I want to know ... explain them to me!"

"You could not possibly understand."

"Oh, really? Am I so very stupid then?"

"That is not what I said."

"No, but it's what you meant! Or did you perhaps mean something else? Yes, that's it! I know now why you're afraid to show me these things ... it's because they don't work, isn't it? They don't work!"

"Everything in this cellar works!" Christine took a step back in pure terror, her face easily blending with the snow-white walls now. The rage that exploded in the voice was immense… and Luciana chose to fight fire with fire. It was as if two volcanoes were erupting at once, each trying to devour the other.

"Well, this doesn't work!" Luciana's cry was accompanied by a loud sound of glass hitting the floor, "... not any more! Or this! Or this!"

Giovanni was deathly pale now as well and quickly began descending to the cellar to intervene before Luciana would end up with a serious injury or worse… but Erik was already storming out of the cellar, taking two steps at a time, pushing past Giovanni with such fury that Christine backed up against the wall and shrunk to the floor, hugging her legs and bringing her knees to her chin, rocking back and forth, terrified.

Not even Giovanni dared to stop Erik from fleeing from the whole incident, because the blind rage he saw in the eyes behind the mask and the air of a killer barely resisting the urge to grant a stupid child her death wish. The scent of death fleeing lingered in the air and Giovanni turned to Luciana, who sat in the middle of broken glass and metal, staring at them, ignorant of her narrow survival and what she had almost caused.

"Luciana!" Giovanni's voice was unnaturally cool, "Go to your room at once!"

But she simply reached to touch one of the pieces of glass. "How can he love these things, these bits of wire and metal?" she whispered, anguished. "How can he love these things and not love me? Am I not pretty enough?" Her voice was choked. "Oh, Papa ... why does he hate me so much?"

"He doesn't hate you, child. He only hates himself."

Confusion took over. "I don't understand," Luciana said, in all truth. "Why should he hate himself?"

Giovanni looked to where Christine was and saw that she had fled to the safety of her room or somewhere else, so he went to sit down near his daughter and uneasily spoke. "Luciana ... the mask..."

But Luciana didn't want to listen to that. "I don't want to hear about the mask," Like a child who heard only what she wanted to hear, she put her hands to her ears. "I don't want to hear those hateful rumors that the laborers are spreading. They're only jealous of him because he's so quick and clever and everyone knows he could take over from you tomorrow."

"Luciana..."

"I don't believe them!' She got up abruptly and backed away. "I won't believe them, Papa, I know it's not true!"

"But if it were..."

"It's not true!" the scream echoed, the hysteric yell of a madwoman who refused to believe anything but what she wanted to believe. "He's not ugly, he's not some kind of monster! I won't let him be ugly, Papa ... won't let him be!"

Silenced by the determination and blind dedication to her belief, Giovanni was forced to let her go, fearing for the sanity of all three of them.


	8. Chapter VIII

**Author's notes:** Yay! Rooftop scene! Mwahahaha… **people who haven't read Kay yet, beware! Contains major spoilers** (but you have read many spoilers anyhow, so I'm not sure you'll care). I had a hard time with the last scene, so please tell me what you think.

**starnat**– Definitely. She is borderline psychotic and suicidal.

**Mystery Guest** – Wow, thanks. I think the summary is better now, but anyway, thanks. Well, Christine is pretty spineless in Kay, so I had to make her a bit more self-confident here. It wouldn't work otherwise, I think. Well, not sure if this is a better ending, but let's see…

**Enrinye**– I'm not daring to comment, Z. Oh, and I kept the "fairytale" bit in the chapter… let's see if you like this. And no "olizovanie sa", so don't worry. Purgatory is updated, check it out.

**longblacksatinlace** – Thanks. It would have been funny if the situation wasn't so serious. I knew then and there that something really bad was going to happen… anyway, read on!

**hsibelius **– (takes her bows) Thank you, that was some praise. Hmm… well, since you're so very musical, I'd say ALW´s Erik. It's hard to determine, but I think that this is the form that suits you best. Anyway, the sorting really is just guessing by the "bios" people submit. But, as I said in one of the previous chapters, it truly made my night when you sorted me as Kay's Erik. Anyhow… back to the chapter. I hope everyone is IC.

X X X

**Chapter VIII **

X X X

Knowing that Erik would prefer solitude, Giovanni didn't go to the site the next day. He needed time before he would cool down and be ready to venture back into the hellish house, as Giovanni was sure he felt about the place he once could have called home. Luciana and Christine each remained in their rooms, but the later didn't come for supper, even though they really didn't eat at all, merely waited.

After Luciana was gone and the corridor was deserted, Christine finally dared to slip out of her room and head for the rooftop garden. She didn't want to see anyone, but needed some fresh air, because the very walls of her room seemed to be closing in around her. And if she would sing that wretched song she had written in the long hours of her solitude, she was sure she would go mad.

She would begin to believe that Erik was a real angel and become truly insane.

Already she was anguished and despairing, but she knew she couldn't do anything. Giovanni had tried to help things, but even he couldn't change the situation. What hope did she have, especially after the childish scene she made in the cellar not so long ago? God bless the day she would get out of this Hell and finally be able to forget about all of this… but then she would go mad because she would be gone.

Confused and crying, she settled on the hand-carved travertine bench, curling into a ball. This summer definitely didn't turn out the way she intended, not at all.

After a few hours of sitting there, she was already half-asleep, so she didn't see Giovanni enter, notice her with a smile, then disappear into the shadows and begin watering the flowers. It took some time before she stirred because of the chill of a colder wind and rubbed her arms a bit to warm herself. Then, smiling sadly at the stars, for her own amusement, she began singing again.

_Angel of Music _

_Guide and guardian _

_Grant to me your glory… _

_Angel of Music _

_Hide no longer _

_Secret and strange Angel…_

The child was so captivated by the song and lost in her imagination that she didn't even notice her "Angel" slouch through the roof, like a weary shadow, but he straightened up immediately as the song reached his ears, almost like a predator that sensed fresh prey. Despite being the image or weariness, he reached for whatever energy he had remaining and softly echoed:

_I am your Angel of Music…_

_Come to me, Angel of Music… _

Christine jumped and quickly looked around, but in her frantic state, she didn't spot him before he quietly approached her and sat down next to her. When she turned and saw him, she edged away from him with fear in her eyes. Ever since that incident yesterday, she was jumpy and afraid of this new, darker side of him.

"Christine…" the soft whisper of her name seemed to calm her slightly. The primal urge of a gazelle to flee from the hunter disappeared, but wasn't yet replaced by calmness.

"Yes?" Her voice was shaking and she shivered when a cold hand firmly grasped hers.

"Christine…" Was the only answer she got, but when tension left her body, the possessive grip eased and slowly, carefully, Erik pulled her closer from the edge of the bench, since she was on the verge of falling to the ground, encountering little resistance. "Christine…" He truly spoke the name like a prayer.

"Erik!" It was not the person he would want to call his name, excited, that did so.

Abruptly, the small ivory hand he had captured pried itself from his grasp and its owner shunned away from him, as if he had the plague, hoping to remain unnoticed by the newcomer.

Erik, also in shock that Luciana had come to the rooftop garden now, long past midnight, leapt to his feet immediately, tense, refusing to turn to her as she approached. Not even in the military would he receive a more unexpected wake-up call.

"I want you to take off the mask," It was Luciana who said it, true, the voice was hers, but the tone wasn't arrogant or demanding – it was a simple request, then repeated in a pleading manner. "Please take off the mask."

If she would ask anything else of him with that humbleness in her voice, Erik would oblige. But not this. Even if Christine would ask him to do this, he would refuse without a second thought. Never again would he show anyone his face willingly. Never again.

He regained his posture. Swiftly avoiding Luciana and heading for the stairs, he remained calm and cold as he said: "You must excuse me, mademoiselle. I have work to finish."

Getting away was his first priority now. Afterwards, now that he had managed to soothe Christine's fear of him, he could perhaps talk to her about the lessons­… and what she implied when they talked for the last time. Leaving her there alone was unwise, but staying was a far more insane idea.

"I will not excuse you!" Luciana didn't acknowledge Christine's presence at all, even as the illusion of an apologizing girl disappeared. The demanding cry cut through the silence like a blade. "You don't have any work to finish! I want you to take off the mask, do you hear me, Erik? I want you take it off right now!"

It was then that Christine, still curled on the bench, noticed Giovanni, who took this as his cue to appear and, quite unexpectedly, blocked Erik's escape route.

"Sir?" Erik stopped and glanced behind, cornered, but eager to search for another means of escape.

The mason laid a hand on his sleeve in a gesture he hoped was comforting. "Erik, we've gone beyond the question of choice."

A bit taken aback, Erik almost stuttered. "I'm sorry ... I don't quite ..."

"I think it would be best if you simply did as my daughter has asked."

The boy was now like a creature frozen by looking at one of the gorgons – motionless, a statue, except his horror and pain showed only in his eyes… and there was so much of it that no one, certainly not the kind-hearted Giovanni, could withstand seeing the fragile glass of his beautiful castle of dreams be shattered and come crumbling to the ground with a magnificent crash.

The trust he had for the man he viewed as his father was the first part of that building that broke into ruins.

"You are asking me to do this thing?" His voice was trembling, his mind was childishly refusing to believe that he was hearing what he dreaded, just as he had once refused to believe that it was his reflection that was the frightening monster in the mirror. "You are ordering me?"

"If an order is what it takes," There was distinctive sadness behind that statement, "then I am ordering you. God Almighty, boy, you must see this can't go on any longer."

Erik swayed slightly and put out a hand to steady himself against the balustrade. If he still had some rationality left, perhaps he would understand that it wasn't Giovanni's intention to anger or upset him, that the mason only wished to finally resolve the never-ending circle of pain and beginning madness, tired and despairing.

But now, his clinging to the hope that Giovanni wouldn't care about what lay beneath the mask was brutally broken to pieces that couldn't be put together. It was the one thing he couldn't mend. It was the only gesture that could have destroyed his increasing faith that there were yet humans that could accept and love him, humans he could love without fear of rejection.

But the dagger plunged into his heart had been twisted.

Automatically, Giovanni moved to give him a supporting arm. He never touched him, however, for Erik lifted his head and his eyes now reflected the loathing he held for the entire human race, his rage pushing back the anguish and utter despair that were threatening to consume him.

In that moment, Giovanni understood what he had done in one unguarded moment. He had killed the boy that was his son… and now, a new part of him had to take over the soulless corpse.

Because the horrid sight was out of her view, Christine dared do what Giovanni couldn't and touched Erik's arm lightly, reaching out to give him support. In a second, a cry of pain escaped her lips as her wrist was caught in a tight grasp and jerked up in a painful angle. She was thrown to the ground roughly.

The stranger that straightened up was no longer the boy they knew – it was a foreboding shadow that seemed to cloud all the sources of light, now truly living up to the description of a dark demon who had ascended from Hell to torture mortals.

"You want to see?" No emotion could frighten the others more than the toneless void that seemed to belong to the living dead. "You want to see! Then look!"

With eerie calm, he almost seemed to float to Luciana, draining the very heat of Giovanni's and Christine's blood. But Luciana failed to realize what danger was pulsing around them. And when they were standing face to face and he forcefully ripped the mask off his face, revealing a merciless horror, it was too late.

Her mouth dropped in a soundless scream of shock and terror, but her attempts at some sort of escape or defense were met only with madness, for Erik reached out to catch her, presumably to force her to look closely, since her inquisitiveness knew no measure. Giovanni's cry of warning went unnoticed by Luciana in her primal panic, instinct ordering the girl to run and run fast. Christine could only watch with wide eyes as Luciana's path was finally blocked by the balustrade, against which she threw herself.

And the following sight would be remembered by the three spectators for the rest of their lives.

The sound of aging stonework giving away underneath the weight, her black hair blowing along with a shower of dust and rubble as her small body crumbled to the ground, falling in the courtyard, two stories beneath them.

Until Giovanni slowly turned and went down to the courtyard, nothing broke the silence after the last stones settled, their final shift being Luciana's passing bells. Christine scrambled to her feet and timidly followed Giovanni and Erik downstairs, her hands flying to her mouth to hold back a gasp of fright when she saw her cousin's broken body, her split skull and the ooze-covered stones. There was no doubt that she was dead.

Wordlessly, Giovanni carried the body inside and lay her on a leather couch, strangely distant. He did not turn and did not weep, but Erik, aware of the emotions in the air and believing it was his fault, knew that if he would stay, the remains of the sanity of both of them would be gone. Cursing with a sob, his shadow moved away from all that had happened in those last few minutes, daring not to look back at Christine, who had tears in her eyes.

She looked up, however, and ran after him as fast as she could, into the dark of the night. Looking around, she saw his retreating form slip through the shadows. Even in her almost irrational state, she knew that blindly chasing after him was nonsense. He was far too quick and agile.

_Angel of Music!_

_Don not shun me!_

_Stay by my side, trust me…!_

_Angel of Music!_

_Hide no longer!__  
Come to me, strange Angel…!_

The call into the darkness stopped the retreating figure in his flight and forced him, almost against his will, to turn back to her. The song, simple as it was, was captivating, due to the simple fact that she was singing it. Anything that would come out of her mouth was beautiful music to him. But his rationality reminded him that returning was insanity, so he simply stopped and listened.

Christine took that as her cue to run to him, repeating the phrases or using the original words, anything so that he wouldn't decide to leave after all. Her eyes weren't used to searching through the darkness, so she had to squint to see him. Fortunately, even in the night, he stood out, in his dark clothes. Thus she spotted him easily.

When she reached him, he was examining the ground as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Truthfully, he wasn't entirely certain why she called for him. Did she wish to blame him openly for Luciana's death? It was to be expected, certainly, but that didn't mean it wouldn't pain him.

Christine stopped in front of him, panting slightly. Her eyes were red and teary, but she refused to cry, at least yet. She wasn't entirely certain what she was supposed to say, but she knew that letting him leave just like that was wrong.

"Erik…" she whispered, blinking and also looking at the ground for a moment, searching for words.

What was she supposed to say, really? Telling him that it wasn't his fault would collide with his stubborn belief that it was the horror of his face that had caused Luciana to panic and run. She wouldn't be able to convince him to stay… and, in truth, she wasn't sure if it would be good, for all their sakes.

"Erik… I know you will not believe a word I say, but I believe you are not to blame for her death. God… God had decided to welcome Luciana among his angels… we… we cannot understand His intentions, but… but He knows what He is doing."

Her words were empty, she knew, but faith was the first thing that came to her mind when she realized she had to remain calm. Not knowing of Erik's opinions of God and His ways, she didn't anticipate the bitter, mocking laugh that escaped his lips when he finally looked at her, with a sorrow in his eyes that made her wince.

""He knows what He is doing?" Do you honestly believe that, Christine? Tell me, do you still believe in God's mercy after what had happened?" he hissed, pained, "Do you still believe he cares for his little mortal playthings?"

"He works in mysterious ways…"

His laughter was almost hysteric. "Of course! We aren't allowed to say he makes mistakes! He works in mysterious ways! Then I would very much like to know where he got the idea that he should create me!"

"What fault is there in creating a genius and an angel in one!" Christine silenced him with a shout of her own.

Pacified, but still disbelieving, Erik shook his head adamantly. "He created an angel… a brilliant angel… but he miscalculated, because a demon fell in love with her!"

"Luciana loved you, you were never a monster to her!" was the teary, anguished reply.

"I never spoke of Luciana!" Erik yelled, turning away from her in frustration. The sound of sobbing ceased almost immediately and if he could simply disappear now, he would be eternally grateful to whoever would make it possible. Two hopeful eyes were looking at him and he was almost shrinking underneath their gaze.

Christine couldn't find the strength to smile through her tears, but her voice was shaking for different reasons than grief. "You… you can't mean that…"

"Frightening, isn't it? Look closely, Christine!" he grabbed her shoulders and yanked her closer, as he attempted with Luciana, "It is a corpse that loves you and adores you! A living corpse! If God were merciful, I would be normal, like everyone else and I would stay with you and never, ever leave you! But God, the cruel charlatan, never granted me the tiniest bit of happiness! And he denied me even the last hope I had…"

Broken and sobbing, he released her, collapsing on the ground. Christine was speechless – not only were his words obviously completely honest, but seeing him, the image of strength and authority, sobbing like a child was enough to make her pity him.

She leaned forward to touch his shoulder in a comforting gesture, but he caught her skirt, as if afraid she would leave. Finally unable to remain standing, Christine knelt next to him and took his hands, gripping tightly.

"Why can't we have a happy ending, like the people in fairytales?" she whispered, "Why?"

The mockery of an ironic smile played on his lips – the anguish and sorrow were too strong for him to overcome and manage his usual sarcastic expression. "The princess never marries the monster in fairytales."

"The monster never is a prince." she retorted, finally smiling sadly through the tears.

Erik's expression faded and he seemed as though he was in a dream world now. Almost as if he knew it was just a dream and was too wary to accept kindness, even if it was sincere and honest. Too much wariness protected him from such promises.

"I killed your cousin." He said simply. That alone was reason enough for her to hate him, he knew. Thus, this was incomprehensible. She couldn't care for him. Perhaps she was simply maddened with grief and didn't realize what she was doing.

"You played a part in her death, I know. But… I am not rational enough to let it kill what I feel. You frighten me at times and what happened was so very, very terrible… but I am mad, mad… mad with what I feel." Christine sighed. "They say you are a magician… could you make the madness disappear?"

Another bitter smile. "I overestimated my abilities, Christine. I thought I could make anything disappear – except my face. Now I find that there is another thing I can't make disappear. So I'll have to disappear… and perhaps then time will do what I can't." Erik got up, regained his posture and prepared himself for the inevitable parting. "Your uncle will be looking for you."

Christine understood. She took the hand he offered her and rose from the ground, but didn't let go just yet. It was awkward, in a way. They had known each other for quite a long time, but neither knew what to say in such a situation. It was doubtful they ever considered that they would have to part. The fantasies were becoming real – neither noticed that reality would not be denied so easily.

"Farewell, Christine."

"Don't say that. It sounds too definite. "Goodbye" gives more hope."

"Hope that your God will intervene and correct the little blunder he has made tonight?"

"Never lose hope, Erik. You might not have anything else left." But she couldn't remain calm. She ceased fighting back tears now. "Au revoir, Erik... jusqu'à ce que nous nous réunissions encore, dans la vie ou dans la mort."

"Au revoir, mon Ange de la Musique." Then, before she could say anything else, he turned from her and vanished into the night, leaving Christine standing alone in the darkness.

Still she stood there, gazing blindly into the darkness for some time, until she quietly turned around and walked back into the house, almost soulless. Indeed, like him, she had lost part of her soul that night, though for different reasons. Part of her soul left her along with him. A mistake, perhaps, but not one to be regretted. And even as she returned, weeping when she once again saw the corpse of Luciana on the couch and the heartbroken Giovanni, she mourned above all else the death of what might have been.

X X X X

**A/N:** Okay, this part of the story seems to be over… now, I expect a lot of reviews (I'm evil, I know) and ideas how I should continue. I have a general idea, but I want to hear your opinions. Unless, of course, you want me to end it right here… (evil grin)

Oh, and for those of you who don't speak French (hey, neither do I, so please correct me if there are mistakes in the sentence), "jusqu'à ce que nous nous réunissions encore, dans la vie ou dans la mort" means (or is supposed to mean): "until we meet again, in life or in death".


	9. Chapter IX

**Author's notes:** Since you're being oh-so-very-helpful (yeah, I know you're doing it on purpose :-p), I've decided to write it as I wanted to from the beginning and make it more dramatic. This will be a unique plotline, I can assure you of that. Oh, and the first part of this chapter is based completely on Kay, I hope it's good.

**starnat** – I've thought of that, actually. Well, I never said Luciana was very bright.

**Sandra **–thanks for the encouragement.

**Moonjava** – (bows)

**h. sibelius** – (innocently) Evil? Me?

**longblacksatinlace**– Hmm…. No, no spoilers! Here it is!

**Enrinye** – Dead Luciana means good Luciana

X X X

**Chapter IX **

X X X X

He was dreaming again.

Or remembering, if you could call picking happy memories, scarce as they were or adding happy endings to the sadder ones that. There were pleasant dreams of music, laughter, and a smiling angel.

In his nightmares, she turned into her cousin all of a sudden, just as he was almost able to reach her, screaming and backing away in fear. Then the ground would open and swallow her. In worse cases, he would see her broken corpse, now with the face fully retransformed to Christine's. Sometimes he had to remind himself that she was alive and probably happy, far away in Europe, presumably in Paris.

Five years. Seasons and months fleeing, repeating themselves constantly. And he wandered around the whole continent, once again a magician, a ventriloquist, a singer… but he was also forced to break the promise he had made to himself and show his face on occasion to the eager crowds. His songs soothed them, however, so at least they no longer screamed in terror at the mere sight of him. Not that it mattered much anymore. He learned, slowly but surely, to detach himself from it, thinking of Christine when it came to the worst.

She would be 18 now, he mused, and would soon finish her studies at the conservatoire. Paris had no grand opera house, however, so he assumed that so talented a singer would move to a more artistic city later on – perhaps London, which wasn't that far away. And Christine was a quick learner, English wouldn't be a problem for her. Unless, of course, one of the suitors that were bound to be circling her by now had already claimed her hand in marriage.

The very thought made him clench his fists in rage. The image of Christine married, giving up the stage and expecting a child or already with children that would belong to some pompous foppish fool who was completely unworthy of her was more than enough to awake the desire to kill said fool within him.

For the sake of his own sanity, he decided to think of something else at last, otherwise the next person that would walk in (which was highly improbable, since there was no one within miles that would dare disturb him) or the next person he would meet would end up with a broken neck.

He decided to consider the proposition of the Persian… "messenger" he had received just minutes ago. "Messenger". He chuckled at that. No one sends the chief of police merely to deliver a message, certainly not when it's supposed to be a polite invitation. Then again, if the shah the daroga mentioned was at least half as pompous as Erik imagined him to be, he could have been at least a bit grateful for the courtesy the Persian had shown. Could. That was the keyword.

But, he returned his thoughts to the proposal itself. After all the miles he had crossed during the last years, Persia really didn't seem that far away, since Nijni-Novgorod was quite close to the Caspian Sea and from there, it wasn't a long journey. If you traveled by boat, that is. And that was out of the question – he refused that adamantly before even acknowledging that he chose to accept.

He recalled the offer – wealth, money, power… and then his own words, which he instantly repeated to himself.

"No man can give me what I want… not even the shah of Persia." He whispered. No one could bring his angel back to him or change his face.

The following evening proceeded entirely as the one before… and the one before… Crowds awed and amazed by his talents, tricks both old and new, but they didn't seem to care the least if they had seen what he had shown before – they were like Luciana when it came to this. The enchantment was too strong for them to resist and the fascination too great. Seeing the laws of the physical world challenged and defeated, defied, they truly believed that his skills weren't natural and that he was gifted these things by some supernatural entity, be it God or Satan.

The performance was over all-too-soon in the opinion of the hungry crowds, who, covering the floor with coins, demanded, called and begged for more entertainment, more illusions, more magic.

Already expecting this, Erik couldn't help sounding tired of the never-ending greed as he turned away and proclaimed: "You have seen all I was prepared to show today."

His words had little effect, predictably. The crowds were too excited and passionate now, too demanding. They refused to go. Moreover, realizing that he was probably telling the truth and there were no other tricks and illusions they could see tonight, they demanded the one thing that drew most of them there.

"Show us your face!" they shouted, "Show us your face, Erik, and let us hear the Devil sing!"

The tale of the wonders he created was already seemingly far-fetched… but now that they saw that it was all too true, they wanted to confirm the whispered rumor they heard from whoever had already seen the haunting performance that was unlike anything they have witnessed before. They wanted to see.

Almost subconsciously, his hands clenched into fists and he stiffened a bit, struggling to control his rage. Of course he knew they would want to see. Everyone did. Everyone demanded to see. The reason he was enraged was that he couldn't possibly refuse, as much as he would want to. Oh, he could murder whole the crowd one by one without problems – weakness, be it physical or mental, peered at him from every corner. Numbers weren't an issue. For the sake of his own survival, however, he couldn't.

Survival without struggle meant money. Money meant power. Power meant… everything. And if he was to end this performance without causing even more of a commotion than his face would, he had to oblige.

It took only one fluid yet forceful moment before he held the mask in his hands, his face bare for everyone to see. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife, but he refused to acknowledge it. Weariness overcame him and his shoulders fell, quite the opposite of the straightened king-like stance. Age seemed to run past him and the years he didn't even have a chance to live fell on him. It was a way of recognizing defeat.

Christine… what would she say now? Would she still think of him as her Angel, if she would see this. The agony he was experiencing was the one thing he refused to show the crowds tonight. Memories of Christine gave him some strength. If defeat, then with grace.

And he began to sing, imagining that the tent was empty, that he was no longer there, but somewhere else – it didn't matter where – and Christine was once again sitting nearby, listening to his music. Each word consisted of nothing other than what he knew he lacked the strength to say otherwise back then and there was no power in the world capable of turning back time to help him correct the mistake.

But, as the song slowly neared its end, his acute awareness returned and sight reminded him that he was still in a Russian town, singing not for a little angel, but for a crowd, which he loathed and despised. They were undeserving of any more "amusement".

There was nothing but silence when he stopped singing. Weeping people seemed to remember where they were and what was happening. They were remembering to breathe and think. In a sense, he was content. Perhaps there had been too much sadness in the song. If he had pushed them any further, quite a few could have had an emotional breakdown. Yes, his pride had been avenged, in a way. Underestimating the power of his voice was most unwise.

Then, when the crowd finally left, he returned the mask to his face, oblivious to the face that his hands were shaking or the presence of the Persian daroga, who lingered to wait for his answer, if there would be an answer tonight. He barely even noticed that he closed his eyes as he replaced the mask, a pained whisper of Christine's name escaping his lips, so faint that it barely caught Nadir's attention. The Persian frowned slightly at the sound of the name, but the physical change that transpired right before his eyes pushed any pondering on it away.

Weariness faded away from the man before him, as did decades of mental age. Once again, he was young.

Almost frowning, he glanced at the daroga and was quickly assured that the Persian was indeed expecting an answer to his query. He didn't desert the answer he had prepared.

X X X

Applause was roaring wherever she looked.

Bowing, she relaxed slightly. It was the end of the performance, finally. Her last performance here, at the conservatoire, it seemed. She was graduating soon, a very successful student, and would be taking a few days off before attending the celebration of the other students. Then it would be time to consider what she would do now.

The crinoline she wore was long and heavy. Fortunately operatic singing didn't require running around the stage. Thus, she had gotten used to it… mostly. It wasn't very good for avoiding would-be-suitors and admirers, however, so she had to run off almost immediately after taking her bows, straight to her dressing room and lock the door. Really, ever since she sung at that premiere three years ago, they were like wasps. They never left her alone.

Most of the others were already used to this, so they were glad to help her out whenever necessary. It became a custom for her to escape the dressing room through the window (not impossible, since it was the ground floor), most often in a boy's clothes. She was hardly recognized in a barrette, with her hair hidden underneath it and dressed up as a young street urchin, anyway.

Today, it was different. She knew she wouldn't be able to escape that easily, since it was probably the last time she was at the conservatoire… at least, as a student. But, along the way, she was pulled to the side by someone vaguely familiar to her. In the semi-dark, it was hard to determine who it was, but her protests were silenced as she heard a tune clearly easy for her to recall.

"Little Lotte let her mind wonder. Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes?"

"Or of riddles or frocks?" she continued, a smile appearing on her face. If her guess was correct…

"Or of chocolates?" The man finished, clearly smiling as well.

"No, what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed." She almost stopped for a moment, because she knew the following line all-too-well. "And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."

Five years. Yes, it had been that much time since Erik had vanished from her life for good and she had to return to harsh reality. The Angel of Music was gone for good – after so long, she doubted they would be reunited. Then again, miracles could happen… after all, she had been so close to losing faith in her father's stories when, all of a sudden, they became true.

"I hope you haven't lost your scarf again, Mlle. Daaé. It would be hard to find it now."

Christine, returning her mind to the present, found herself laughing. Oh, she remembered the boy who rescued her favorite red scarf from the sea. A childhood friend and sweetheart, you could say, even though it had been so very long since they had met for the last time.

"Raoul, it's so lovely to see you again!" she embraced him without a second thought, just as she did back when they were children.

The Vicomte de Chagny smiled and stroked her hair lightly, equally happy to see her. Frankly, he wouldn't have recognized the beautiful singer as his Little Lotte, if he wouldn't have read the list of the cast for tonight's performance. And he was glad he did.

"You've grown so much, Little Lotte." He noted, still smiling as he released her, "Look at you now – a fresh prima donna, with all that goes with it! I was almost afraid you wouldn't recognize me, with all the suitors chasing you."

She waved that off. "Nonsense!" Though, she had to admit that he had changed as well, grown more handsome, but still kept the boyish look about him. The truth was, she probably wouldn't have noticed him, but it wasn't polite to say that. "I'm glad to see you after all this time. We have much catching up to do!"

"Indeed. How bout we start with a dinner?" he asked, smiling mischievously. Now that he had Christine back, he wasn't just about to let her slip away again. Besides, while he didn't know if it still remained mutual, he still viewed her with the same affection as he did as a child.

If only to avoid the rest of the mobs shouting "Daaé! Daaé!", Christine agreed.

Naturally, only the most expensive restaurant in town was suitable for such a grand reunion and the pair soon found themselves laughing at funny stories, remembering things and telling each other of what they had been doing during the time of their separation.

Raoul spoke mostly of his formal priorities as a nobleman, but, knowing that it could bore the young girl, he often stopped to talk about his siblings, his parents, or anything more interesting than simply business affairs. Christine talked about her life as a student, her family – or rather, what remained of it now – skipping only one summer. She didn't view it as something she needed to tell Raoul, partially due to the fact that his reaction was predictable, since he obviously grew beyond viewing her just as a little girl, partially due to the sadness of the memory.

She didn't cry anymore at the thought of what had transpired, but still felt grief ever so often. It might seem natural that a young girl would want to forget the events as soon as possible and put them behind her, but Christine remained true to what she had promised. She had devoted herself to music… and its Angel. This devotion made her refuse all potential candidates for an affair. She was confident in her solitude, even though she wished, not without feeling a pang of jealousy at the thought, that Erik had found love and happiness wherever he had disappeared to. God knew well he deserved it more than anyone else.

"Christine?" Raoul´s voice brought her back to reality. "Have you made any plans for the future, now that you've finished your studies at the conservatoire?"

She began fiddling a bit with her fork, but continued to eat nonetheless, keeping her eyes on her food. This was taking a direction she didn't like. "Well, not any definite plans. I mean, I wanted to continue singing, naturally, but there's no real opera house here, so I would probably have to move to another city. I don't know if I'm quite ready to leave France, but London sounded nice…"

"Nothing definite, then?"

"No…" she frowned, "Why?"

"Well, you said yourself that we had a lot of catching up to do. I think you will agree that one night isn't quite enough time to make up for all that we've missed." A nod. "I know this might be a little forward, so don't take it the wrong way, but I was wondering if you have any plans because I would like to invite you on a little holiday. With me, of course."

"What is this about, Raoul?" Christine asked, lowering her fork.

He looked around and leaned forward a bit, almost conspiratively. "My brother and I have been approached by the government concerning a favor they would like from us. It concerns a diplomatic journey – nothing dangerous, there's no need to worry." He added when he saw her stiffen. "A diplomatic mission, but it would be for more than one holiday, perhaps, because the journey there is long and the journey back isn't really planned for a definite date…"

She laughed a bit, interrupting him. "Raoul, let me hear it, it can't be that bad – you don't have to keep avoiding the subject. I may be a girl, but I promise I'll not faint or swoon."

Raoul smiled. "Very well. I would like to take you with me, if you would be interested in seeing some exotic places, that is. I would deal with everything, you would just have to brace yourself for a long journey and possibly a long stay."

"And the destination? Do you know the concrete place? You didn't mention that yet."

He nodded. "Indeed, I wanted to surprise you." Judging by the look on her face when he named it, he supposed he did.

X X X

**A/N:** Alas, Z. convinced me that doing the Fop would be a challenge, and I love challenges, so yes, he is here!


	10. Chapter X

**Author's notes:** Phew! I overcame my writer's block quite quickly. Well, not a writer's block, really, I just didn't know if I should go straight to a certain scene or write another thing…­ anyway, this turned up pretty quickly – it took just an hour to write. Enter Nadir, folks! I hope he's IC.

**Mademoiselle Phantom** – thanks a lot, read on.

**longblacksatinlace**– Dun dun dun! Fop is there, yes! No spoilers, though!

**Enrinye**– hey, don't get sarcastic on me, missy, you wouldn't have guessed what was gonna happen if I hadn't asked you if that was a good plotline. ;-) Anyhow, how would you have written the reunion? Aw, come on, Z.! Don't be shy! Post a phic! ;-p

**hsibelius **– (nods) Yes… but I´ll have him meet Christine again, don´t worry!

**Mina** – Well, some readers at another site have suggested that I pursue writing as a career… but I'm not sure. Happy ending? Hmm… we'll see. Heh, you and about a zillion other phangirls like to think that. Poor Erik – dead for 150 years and still has a tight schedule. :-)

**The Organic Sith** – (cheers and celebrates) One of the best reviews I've received – thank you, praise is appreciated. Well, I try to make Raoul more believable as a potential love interest for Christine. I mean, in Kay, he's a brat, but in Leroux, he's a sap. I mean, come on!

**Moonjava** – thanks, read on!

X X X

**Chapter X**

X X X X

Sitting in her compartment on the train to the unknown wasn't as entertaining as one might have thought it would be. She lost track of the cities that zoomed past her, the lakes, the roads, the rivers, the forests…

Christine sighed. Perhaps she shouldn't have agreed to this escapade. Traveling to a strange new land could seem exciting and while she was enthusiastic about spending time with Raoul and his older brother, Philippe, who would, if nothing else, at least keep him in check at times, she was also nervous. But that was only natural, right?

After all, she had also agreed to certain compromises that were created for the sake of not this trip seem the least strange. Deep down inside, however, something told her that it was a bad idea to go through with this, despite all the planning.

Hearing a sound from the side, she returned her mind to the present and to reality, looking to see who had just opened the door. Predictably, it was Raoul who entered, smiling when he saw her.

"All right, Lotte?" he asked, frowning slightly when he noticed her weary face. "I hope you're not too bothered by the length of the journey – I'm afraid that's the one thing I can't do anything about. Technology still isn't able to transport us this far in a few hours. But if you would like to get something to eat or drink, the staff will be more than happy to assist you. Or you can sleep, if you like."

Christine's weary smile widened for a moment. He was being far too overprotective after less than a day of traveling. If anyone else would behave that way, she would probably dismiss them with a word of thanks, but she didn't have the heart to do the same to Raoul, who seemed to think it was his duty to protect her. She was unused to the attention, flattering as it was and didn't know how to properly react, so she chose not to react at all… otherwise she would have to roll her eyes – a gesture most unladylike.

Raoul sat down nearby, still concerned. "I know the journey isn't exactly thrilling, but I promise you, you will like it there. I haven't been there myself yet, but the tales I've heard made it seem almost dreamlike, you know."

The response he got was a laugh. "Raoul, if I remember correctly, the North Pole also seemed dreamlike and worth seeing to you."

Feigning a scowl, Raoul retorted: "Well, I suppose I like extremes. Besides, visiting a country with a warm climate for a change will be wonderful. But you have it better than me, Christine – you can go do and see whatever you want to during the stay. I'll be stuck with official paperwork at times." He sighed. "This isn't my favorite pastime, but Philippe is dealing with most of it, so I will get to spend time with you. But I'm certain the locals will be happy to give you a tour or two or entertain you. While we're separated, that is. There is still so much we have to talk about."

"And we wouldn't want to ruin the plan, would we now?"

The frown didn't go unnoticed by Raoul. "If you're uncomfortable with it, Christine­…"

"No! No, Raoul, I realize that it was made to help the situation and I think it's generally a good idea, but…" she laughed a bit, "it simply seems strange."

"I guess it will take some time to get used to it. But it might actually be fun."

"You seem to think of it as a game."

"A role-playing game, I guess, but from a certain point of view, I think that it could be viewed as a game, yes. Why?" he smiled mischievously, "Any rules that I should follow?"

"Just make sure it doesn't get out of hand."

"That sounds like you don't trust me, Little Lotte." He said, mock upset.

Christine laughed. "At games? Never, dear Raoul! Remember that you always kept looking when we played hide and seek. Until I caught you and then always had to double-check."

"Don't worry, Lotte – I will play nice. After all, we are on the same team this time." Raoul noted with a smile.

"And who wins this game?"

"Everyone. And that's the beauty of it."

With a smile, Christine nodded and began searching one of her bags for a book. Her search was rather quick, fortunately – even at the conservatoire, she was known for neat organization of her things and packing was no exception. When not singing or studying, her favorite thing to do was reading. Not that she was a bookworm, but novels allowed her some degree of freedom in time and space.

Contrary to her peers – the giggling girls of the corps de ballet or the shy lasses of the chorus, Christine, always, different, preferred realism to romantism, novels with the possibilities of a real story instead of a happy ending, real people in day-to-day situations rather than the perfect heroes, titans, who were against the society and fought for their dreams.

Currently, Balzac was her favorite author and she eagerly read one book after another from The Human Comedy. Even now, she pulled out Le Pére Goriot, quickly finding her last page. She lost track of time again and barely noticed that Raoul was still in the compartment with her, watching her intensely at times, then shyly turning away, in case she would notice. She didn't, not once, and it was doubtful that it would matter to her if she did. Stares were something she was used to.

Eventually, a tap on the glass of the compartment door and a sigh informed her that Raoul was being called again, presumably by his brother – she couldn't tell, since she didn't wake up. The Vicomte politely excused himself and said that he would check upon her as soon as he was free again, then disappeared.

Christine practically lost track of the journey and the world around her. She couldn't help it, really. This tended to happen to her when she was entranced by something – she just couldn't part with it. Strange, since just a few years ago, she wasn't so determined to read every book in her reach. Another habit gained for the sake of saving her own sanity. She had to keep herself occupied somehow and books were good company when humans had no time to be with her, occupied with their own affairs.

"_He went a few paces further, to the highest point of the cemetery, and looked out over Paris and the windings of the Seine; the lamps were beginning to shine on either side of the river. His eyes turned almost eagerly to the space between the column of the Place Vendôme and the cupola of the Invalides; there lay the shining world that he had wished to reach. He glanced over that humming hive, seeming to draw a foretaste of its honey, and said magniloquently:_

"_Henceforth there is war between us."_

_And by way of throwing down the glove to Society, Rastignac went to dine with Mme. de Nucingen."_

Another book finished, she noticed. There were no more pages left, but it didn't really bother her. The story had satisfying ending… or beginning? But she liked that it was left to the reader's imagination to see how the story continued.

In a sense, it reminded her of her own situation as well. She would probably make a fortune, if she would trust herself to write down the events of the long-past summer and publish them. There weren't prominent female writers in France, but she had heard of the Brontë sisters in England and was looking forward to reading some of their works once she would get the chance. Still, she didn't have the heart to write about the summer in Italy. It would mean remembering too much. And she didn't want to delve into that part of the past, not that deeply.

Perhaps she should switch authors soon, she thought – Eugéne Rastignac had similarities with her. The main major difference between them was that she didn't have the courage to proclaim war on the society. Now it was too late to fight for something she never had… but could have had. Maybe.

Carefully closing the book – one would think that it was made of silk and would tear if she would touch it too roughly, judging by the affection of the gesture – she returned it to her bag, storing it among the rest of the books. She had more than a grand supply of books with her, so she didn't think that there would be moments of boredom during the trip. Besides, if it wouldn't last, she could start over – some things were too complex to understand after a single read.

Almost abruptly, the train stopped and Christine found herself gripping the seat to stop herself from falling forward. She didn't guess they were traveling that fast. Apparently, she had much to learn about the physics of speed.

Philippe de Chagny arrived soon after that, smiling politely when she greeted him. The Count was happy that his brother seemed so overjoyed by Christine's presence, but considered their little plan a bit too… realistic? He wasn't sure what the right word was, but he would have to be keeping a close eye on the boy. As if he didn't have enough to take care of already! He would only have to hope that Raoul still had some rationality left. Judging by the dreamlike gleam in his eyes at the mention of a certain Swedish girl, it was doubtful, however.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," he began.

"Christine, please, Monsieur – remember Raoul´s plan." She corrected him.

A nod. "Very well then, Christine – you should call me Philippe, then – my brother is dealing with the transportation for the rest of the journey. Ready to continue the journey by boat?"

"I have little choice."

"Indeed, if we wish to arrive this week." the Count noted with a smile, "But if you need more time to gather your things, we can wait."

"No – I'm ready." She was already standing up.

X X X

When your presence was constantly required at several places at once, you really had little time to spare. Erik knew that more than most people – as the court magician, an advisor of the shah, the chief constructor of the new palace and God knows what else, boredom was an unknown word to him.

Still, he refused to please every whim of the two leading figures of the country, even if some degree of his freedom depended on them. As long as they would allow him to do what he wanted, he was content, but if it would go too far… recently, he wasn't sure what exactly he would do – he had no time to think about it. But when the moment would come, it would certainly be creative. Crude methods were out of the question.

The only thing he regretted was that he was forced to neglect his music for so long… too long. Then again, music brought back memories. He hadn't sung for weeks now, but thought of it as of somewhat of a fortune. If the khanum would learn of his music, there would be no end to it. That is, if the woman was interested in such things. It seemed that if something was to interest her, it had to be morbid and cruel.

Sensing a presence before any sound was heard, he didn't even bother looking up from the papers on his desk. His apartment in the palace was truly royal, so it was to be expected that the visitor could only be someone the guards were certain he would let in. Thus, it could be only one person.

"I thought you have already left, daroga." Erik remarked, writing down several notes to the designs. He wasn't satisfied with one of the sketches, however, so the paper quickly ended up torn to shreds. "You know, I can bear to exist a day without you on my tail."

"The shah has requested that I stay for a while longer." Nadir noted, as if that explained everything. And it did, really – whatever the shah commanded, he had to do, lest he desired to lose his favor.

"And why, might I ask, are you forced to spend time in the company of a funeral figure such as myself?" he had never quite forgotten the first encounter with the Grand Vizier.

"Actually, I'm not forced to stay in your delightful company." The sarcasm on the "delightful" almost made Erik smile. "I just thought you might want to know that the shah is having an audience with another of the missions tonight."

"Say no more. Only one question – am I supposed to be entertaining the political buffoons or not come out of my quarters for the night?"

"The later would be preferable, I suppose – the shah doesn't request your presence."

"Thankfully." Erik muttered absentmindedly. Not that he didn't have tricks he could show them, but, being caught up in an artistic fury, he really wasn't in the mood to amuse pompous foreigners.

Nadir smiled. "The only other thing is that the shah will probably be discussing the political situation with them and too busy trying to show himself in the best possible light. I don't know how long they are staying, but I suppose…"

"That I won't be required during that time?" Erik finished, "One would think you are trying to get rid of me, daroga."

"Is that even possible?"

Erik chuckled slightly, putting the papers down for the moment and finally looking up at his friend. "I wouldn't count on it. You aren't efficient enough to get rid of me. One of the things I respect about you." He sighed and stood up, pacing for a moment. "I should be done within the hour… if you would be willing to wait until then, could I come with you? I did promise to visit once in a while. I hate going back on my promises."

"I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing." Nadir confessed, watching Erik shake his head in moderate amusement. "But of course I will wait. Reza will be happy to see you again… Allah knows how many times I've heard that doll playing from his room." With that mutter he left the apartment.

Even if he would have turned, he probably wouldn't have seen the small smile the remark managed to create on Erik's face.

The masked man then returned his attention to the designs on his desk, searching through them once again. He wasn't looking for anything in particular this time, just some kind of inspiration. Lately, he had been trying to bring all the ideas together to create one solid concept for the palace, but some designs clashed with each other, some motives weren't suitable… he would probably have to lock himself in his chambers for at least a week to go through them all and sort them.

Finally throwing away another ruined sketch in frustration, he settled on one of the couches in the main chamber, motionless. He wanted to create something beautiful­… something that wouldn't be matched by any palace in the world… the hidden corridors and trap-doors were sure to make it unique, but the outside had to match the ingenuity of the inside. And there was little to inspire him in the poorly constructed city he saw each time he looked through the window.

Abruptly standing up, he decided that the surroundings were completely useless when it came to inspiration. A stay at Nadir's estate could perhaps provide some ideas – he had become close friends with the daroga of Mazenderan, but he still chuckled on occasion when he remembered their long journey from Russia to Persia, which was clearly not to his guide's liking.

The look of shock and outrage on his face was always amusing.

He intended on repaying him somehow, if only for the civility the Persian had shown him during the whole trip, despite seeing his face the first night in Nijni. And helping his son, Reza, whose eyesight and muscles were failing due to a progressing illness was the best way he currently saw.

Gathering what he wanted or needed to take with him, Erik swept through the room like a hurricane and left to search the palace for the daroga – he was ready to get out of the golden cage for a while.


	11. Chapter XI

**Author's notes:** Guys, I need reviews! Reviews, do you hear me? They are my inspiration and my joy, they keep me going! Hopefully this will grant me some.

On the plus side, it gave me time to practice my singing. Yay! I´m getting good at singing PotO and will be receiving vocal training soon. I feel lucky... and my teacher sang the part of Christine a lot of times. Make that extra lucky. :-)

**starnat**– (insert evil laughter here)

**Enrinye** – no one except you guessed where she was going, Z. and you only guessed because I told you. So nyah! Hey, I asked you to make a parody, didn't I? And if it won't be funny, you will be the one who'll suffer. Mwahaha. We'll see bout the happy ending. ;)

**Mademoiselle Phantom** – (bows)

**Moonjava** - (bows)

X X X

**Chapter XI**

X X X X

It was almost as if a shadow was sweeping through the halls and corridors of the royal palace. By now, the occupants of the building were used to the occasional flutter of darkness in the normally sunlit building, fortunately for them, it would seem, thus Erik's presence didn't frighten… not completely. Even the servants, who were used to the whims of their masters and humble behavior towards them, regarded the resident court magician with respect bordering with fear. Not without reason, naturally.

Drifting through the palace with briskness others could only achieve breaking into a run and still maintaining his standard of not a single inelegant or clumsy move, Erik had a general idea where Nadir might have gone. First he had to get out of the wing of the palace he was in, of course. The sooner he would get out of the palace and out of Tehran, the better.

Perhaps the Persian went to ready their horses. That sounded logical – the journey was long, they needed fresh animals and then there was the change of plans they would be traveling together. That sounded logical, indeed – Nadir was always the practical type…

"Erik!"

He stopped abruptly. There were few people who had the right to address him by name and even fewer that he would obey or want to talk to. Inside, he knew that while the shah of Persia belonged in neither category, but if he wanted to bring his dreams from paper to reality, he would have to obey at least partially.

It was a symbiosis, really. The shah required advice and his mother, the khanum, desired amusement. He could provide both. In exchange, he was allowed a degree of freedom and power unlike any other person in the country.

But it had a certain price to come with it – all the death and torment around him unleashed a part of him he struggled to control for most of his life, for the sake of those he cared about. Now, it was hard to avoid what became part of everyday life.

The swishing of his cloak was the only sound as he turned to the shah, with a practiced neutral expression. Even his golden eyes shone with self-control and an attempt at semi-humility. No man would ever have the privilege of being addressed as his superior anymore, but royalty deserved at least a display of common civility.

"Yes, your majesty?" Erik asked mildly. There was no real emotion behind his voice, not even annoyance at being delayed.

The "young man" as the Grand Vizier sometimes referred to the shah was, like his predecessors, a bit too self-confident and outgoing, even for a monarch. Erik kept his personal opinions about the royal family to himself, however.

If there was one thing he remembered from Nadir's preaching about court behavior, it was the fact that it was extremely easy to lose favor with the shah – he was about as unpredictable as the weather when it came to moods. The only thing you could always count on was his need to hear others defer to him.

Being addressed by the most common of his titles by Erik was probably the closest to respect he was going to get. Even the shah knew well of Erik's… individualism, you could say. And with all the services he had to offer him, the shah was more than willing to excuse his favorite advisor's lack of flattery.

"You are leaving? I thought you might want to attend the reception tonight." The shah noted, adding no real reason why he would think that Erik would want to stay.

"Deepest apologies, your majesty, but I have no intention of coming. My time to spare is precious and I prefer to spend it where I choose, in the company of those I choose. And a formal dinner with European bureaucracy isn't my exactly my fantasy of an ideal night."

Surprisingly, the shah chuckled. "Understandable, I suppose, my friend – you aren't used to the royal way of life yet. You are, of course, free to go where you wish. I have no need for your services tonight and I daresay that the khanum doesn't need any bloody amusement for now, either." He smirked slightly at his own remark, as if it was very witty and amusing.

Erik's lips curled into a faint ironic smile, but he didn't comment.

"Go, then, and give my regards to Nadir. His assignment seems to be going well and I am pleased with his work."

It was curious that he chose to speak of the "secret assignment" to the single person who wasn't supposed to know a thing about it, but who, naturally, knew everything about it. The shah, perhaps in the hopes of learning more about Erik, perhaps wanting to keep a close eye on his actions while in Persia, chose to delegate Nadir Khan, the daroga of Mazenderan, with the task of "watching over" Erik. It wasn't to the Persian's liking, naturally, and his honesty and inability to lie (especially to Erik) confirmed Erik's suspicions quickly.

Out of frustration and annoyance (and some degree of amusement), Erik actually volunteered to make the reports more interesting, just to make sure that Nadir wouldn't be replaced with someone more efficient. Up till now, there had been no real problem in their cooperation.

Lowering his gaze for a moment – as close to a respectful bow as one could get from him – Erik watched the shah leave before turning back to his original destination. It would have been amusing if he would have wished the shah fun with his little committee, but he wasn't sure if the shah was impervious to sarcasm or not. In the end, he decided not to risk it.

Predictably, he found Nadir near the gates of the palace, horses ready. They could leave within a few minutes – Erik intended on securing the architectural designs before allowing the horse to take a single step. He wasn't about to risk losing anything.

In that darkness and clad in dark colors, they were truly easy to miss, as was their main intention, anyway. There was no need to draw attention to the fact that they were leaving the palace. The only other thing they could hope for was a journey without anyone crossing their path.

Tonight, luck wasn't on their side.

The first sounds of a group of horses and people approaching were audible long before any of the mentioned even came into view. Inwardly cursing, Erik moved away from the palace main gate, the horses following him like obedient pets. Nadir decided it might be a good idea not to suggest that they just go anyway, since Erik didn't seem to be in the mood for discussion and chose to follow as well.

It took a few minutes for the newcomers to come into view, though they were still only shapes. The starlight wasn't enough to illuminate their faces and make their features recognizable. Most of them were definitely Persian – the turbans and clothes they wore were proof of that. The identities of the others were easy to guess.

Torches lit the entire palace, thus when the group finally arrived, even Nadir could distinguish faces. As one of the horses passed them, something seemed to catch Erik's attention. In the semi-darkness they were standing it, Nadir couldn't see too much, he saw the gleaming star-like golden eyes of his companion flicker. And they flickered very strangely, unlike the usual emotions he learned to distinguish there. Then there was nothing.

It took Nadir a second to realize that it was because Erik had disappeared all too quickly even for his standards, leaving him alone in the darkness. The horses also sensed it – without their master's comforting presence, they seemed nervous and jumpy. Securing the animals before they would get out of hand, the Persian snuck away, unnoticed.

Erik hurried though the courtyard, but not towards the retreating horses. He knew exactly where they would go and there was a much better place from which he could observe them than the shadows of the building. Instead of following them, he strode straight back into the palace, though through another entrance.

His destination was the throne room.

The throne room was large and currently had only one advantage for him. The walls had a balcony-like opening, revealing the corridors of the floor just above the room, which led to the more administrative sections of the palace. There was no way to access them directly from the throne room, but it looked majestic… or so the person who designed the palace must have thought.

A most unnecessary decoration, though the oriental motives in the official areas were among the better ones in the building. Still, for once, it proved lucky that the chamber was designed this way. During an official reception, there was no chance that someone would stand there or look there.

The wait wasn't long, much to Erik's liking, though he wasn't really keeping track of time. Anxiety seemed to cleanse his senses of any awareness of the rest of the world. His eyes were fixed on the entrance and his thin hands gripped the railings in front of him tightly.

The whole event was prepared, he saw everyone fully assembled, waiting only for the delegation to arrive. It wasn't just his senses deceiving him that the room was silent as the Europeans entered. Each servant was instructed to show them as much respect as they would show the shah himself. The opinions of the missions were highly valued, especially by the Grand Vizier, who constantly kept pointing out that to allow Persia to "take her place in the civilized world", they needed technological progress and allies in the "civilized world".

The delegates came in the company of an interpreter, a guide and several armed guards, who remained at the door once they reached the throne room.

First came a middle-aged aristocratic-looking man with thick hazel hair and a stern, calm gaze, well dressed and obviously the highest-ranking of the group. So it wasn't going to be a bureaucratic dinner after all. It was going to be an aristocratic dinner.

After him, giving the first man a respectable space, came two others, a man and a woman. They were arm-in-arm, both dressed formally, matching the rich appearance of the first man. Also aristocrats, it seemed.

The man was young, a boy, and the word easily described his appearance. He was of mostly average height, but still towered the woman by about half a head. His almost shoulder-long sandy hair was combed with precision, his eyes, despite the calm appearance of a nobleman, shone warmth. His clothes also showed wealth, but were more simplistic than those of the first man. Overall, he was the perfect image of a knight in shining armor from fairytales, which was perfect, for the woman on his arm was the image of a princess.

Her dress was of a soft lavender color and, judging by her escort's expression, the scent of her was matching that. her rich dark hair was pulled back and secured by silver clasps, matching the rest of her jewelry – the decorative belt of her dress and the necklace with floral motives around her slender neck. No sequin could match the smile she spared the young man, however.

Her gaze was soft, Erik could see that much when she glanced around in awe. For a moment, her eyes traveled to where he was standing. And her smile froze immediately – he took that as his cue to turn away and change position on the balcony. When he looked back down, the woman seemed to have regained her posture, dismissing whatever she saw as a trick of the senses. The delegation was already bowing, greeted by the shah.

"His imperial majesty welcomes the honorable delegates to Persia." The interpreter mechanically recited, with unnecessary emphasis on the shah's titles. If Erik wasn't too distracted to listen to what was being said, he would probably snort with contempt. His full attention was focused on the woman, however.

Her face bore a striking semblance of one he remembered with mixed pained love and releasing hatred. The bone structure was very similar, so alike that for a panicked moment, he actually considered that it was truly his "beloved" mother who had come to haunt him even after all these years.

A closer study and examination revealed the differences between the two, however.

Age was the first thing. His mother, while always youthful in appearance, could hardly look a teenager at the age of fifty. Softness was a thing her features always lacked. And wealth was also a factor he had to consider. Clothing this expensive was way beyond his mother's reach.

The last thing was her suitor. Only a man attempting to claim her hand in marriage would look at her the way the boy did. But the woman – just a girl still – was oblivious to the longing looks.

The older man with the couple greeted the shah in French, which was quickly translated by the interpreter. He introduced himself as a Count – Erik didn't catch the name – his brother, the Viscount, who stepped forth and also greeted the shah respectfully.

When he introduced the girl, Erik had to grab the wall for support. He anticipated much… but not this. There was no denying it, however. Even now, the face in his mind could easily be transformed into the one he saw before him through the influence of growing up.

A wave of ecstasy was followed by a rush of fury. The Viscount de Chagny formally introduced Christine Daaé as his fiancée.

X X X

**AN:** Dun dun dun! Bet you didn't see that coming, did you:p


	12. Chapter XII

**Author's notes:** This chapter is from Christine's POV (though not 1st person POV) to clear things up a bit and add a bit more oil to the frying pan. Heh. Metaphor. And it works, too!

Poor Erik – I really made him suffer in the last chapter, didn't I? From one moment of joy to that revelation… well, Fops have a knack for getting in the way of the perfect EC romance. But I told you this would have an original plot, didn't I?

**Mominator** – (bows) Thanks! Read on – things are about to get interesting!

**Enrinye** – Average? Average! Grr! (perfectionist side awakes) Anyway, be sure that you'll have quite a few shocks.

**Hsibelius** – (smiles innocently)

**Sandra –** (chooses not to comment on the first part, since both ideas are interesting) Well, currently my voice is between a very high mezzo and soprano, but I hope to be able to hit the high notes after some vocal training.

**Moonjava**** –** (bows)

**starnat** – I'm sure you do… read on!

X X X

**Chapter XII**

X X X X

She was nervous.

Christine Daaé, prima donna since the age of seven, felt like a shy schoolgirl and hated herself for it. The feeling of unease and a slight foreboding simply wouldn't vanish. Ever since the palace came into view, she felt like this.

Clad in her best dress and wearing jewelry Raoul bought her in the most expensive Parisian shops as a reunion gift, she felt misplaced. Her blood wasn't blue, far from it, and all this court behavior was a tad ridiculous seeming to her, recalling the "crash-course" in noblewoman behavior she had received back in France.

The palace wasn't the most perfectly built structure she had ever seen. It was beginning to age, some of the work was sloppy… Erik wouldn't like it. Mentally, she slapped herself for that. damn the naïve fantasies of an ingénue! She had to remain focused on reality.

The throne room was enormous, if not a bit over-decorated. Nevertheless, she tried to absorb every detail of it, looking around with wide eyes, only vaguely noticing that Raoul was holding her hand tightly. Her eyes traveled to the walls, each line decorating them. she rather liked the balcony decoration, though she couldn't see much of the corridors. The starlit rooms had to be beautiful, however.

But… weren't the stars a bit too close?

Realization came within moments that the two golden orbs were lone eyes, watching her. There was someone there­… and there weren't a lot of people with golden eyes… in fact, she knew just one person­… but once she blinked, the eyes disappeared.

Curiously, she was somehow anxious now. It was a ridiculous idea. Outrageous. There was no chance of that happening. Erik was long gone from her life, no matter how she wished otherwise. Dreaming of him wouldn't help, especially not now.

She mechanically did what Raoul instructed her to do when she would be introduced and greeted the shah politely, behaving like a true Vicomtesse. Christine de Chagny. She didn't think much of the name. As far as she was concerned, Daaé was the only surname she would respond to.

"The king of kings congratulates you on your choice of bride, Vicomte." The interpreter translated, "He says that it is rare to find true beauty, even among women. You have his compliments, mademoiselle."

Christine thanked mechanically. Her mind was elsewhere, though she looked quite content during the reception. The exotic food was interesting, but the political conversation soon began to bore her. It must have shown on her face, too, because Raoul soon gently touched her shoulder, concerned.

"Christine, are you alright?"

Nodding, she looked at him, the trance broken. "Yes, Raoul, I am simply a bit tired from the journey."

"I should have taken more time to see to your well-being. Perhaps you would like to go to the apartment early? I'm sure no one would mind."

Before she could even answer, he turned to the interpreter and asked if it would be alright if his she could go and if she could be given an escort to the rooms meant for her. The interpreter translated the plea to the shah, who, again, said something in Arabic. The translation came quickly enough.

"His majesty agrees that the lady must be tired and bored by the lack of attention."

Christine blushed slightly and looked down on her lap, a bit embarrassed. But the shah chuckled slightly, obviously content that his guess was correct. It wasn't a mocking laugh. Still, Christine continued looking down.

"A servant shall escort you to your rooms, milady."

A slave was summoned immediately, a young boy that couldn't be over fourteen, obviously a fetching boy and instructed to bring her to the prepared quarters. He understood everything, bowing too lowly, which was a sight that Christine was most unused to. Nevertheless, she knew it had to be a custom that the king was viewed as the height of power, so she didn't comment or question it.

Instead, she finally raised her gaze and managed a normal polite smile.

"I thank you, milord. Please forgive my rude departure, I promise that I shall make it up to you tomorrow." She said with practiced civility. Her words were quickly translated and afterwards, the shah nodded to her.

"The shah says he holds you to your word and bids you goodnight, milady."

Kissing Raoul lightly on the cheek, Christine followed the slave out of the throne room and through the palace.

She was right – the starlit rooms were indeed wonderful, but she was used to oil lamps, not torches, and it was indeed torches that illuminated most of the building. The Persian designs were interesting, but she had her fill of them for the day, so she paid only average attention to the way and tried to memorize it the best she could.

There would be plenty of time to explore the palace tomorrow, she reasoned.

Once they reached the chambers, the slave bowed to her as lowly as he did to the shah, said what she guessed to be a farewell and goodnight and departed, leaving her to explore the rooms on her own. The solitude was a welcomed change.

The rooms meant for her were exquisite. As everything in the palace, the designs were oriental and thus a bit foreign to her, but she figured that she could get used to the vivid colors and elaborate designs quite easily after spending a few days surrounded by them. But, overlooking the new atmosphere, the chambers were still clearly meant for royalty or someone very close to that rank, probably important officers or similar people.

The carpets were obviously hand-made and thick enough to serve as a mattress, should anyone prefer to sleep on them. curiously, it probably wouldn't matter if she slept on the ground, since the thick material was so soft in a foam-like matter that her shoes were sinking into it, even though she was light when it came to weight.

The closet and vanity table were obviously made from the highest quality of ebony wood, some decorated with mahogany and gold, richly carved ornaments peering from every corner. And yet everything was made large enough to fit even the most outrageously large outfits.

The mirror was enormous – Christine had never seen one like it. Completely crystal-clear, she could almost believe that it wasn't her reflection but a twin of her looking through a path to another world, a gate to the unknown. It wasn't pompous in its splendor, however. Strangely, it was separated from all the other pieces of furniture, which was good, in a way – if anything else would be near it, it would be over-decorated.

The bed was equally large. Three people could fit in it without problems, four would manage. And she was supposed to be sleeping there alone, since each of the three of them had their separate quarters. That was primarily her and Philippe's idea. They wanted to appear as chaste and you couldn't really trust an engaged couple to sleep in the same bed without anything happening, could you?

On the other side of the next chamber, the entrance to a balcony became visible. The curtains seemed to be thin as spider webs and equally soft, even from afar. The balcony was almost a separate room, certainly large enough to be one. The railings, she could see even from her current position, were also decorated, so perhaps her first impression of the palace was a bit too harsh.

Her luggage was already nearby, she spotted it after she overcame the initial shock. It wasn't unpacked, both fortunately and unfortunately, so she quickly proceeded to do that. but she only took out the things she needed urgently, since it was late and it would take her a while to get out of her elaborate dress and store her jewelry away safely.

The first thing she removed were the silver clasps in her hair, allowing the dark curls to run freely around her face. Afterwards came the necklace with floral motives, which she never truly wanted, despite its beauty. Raoul actually wanted to buy her an even more expensive and far more decorated one, but it seemed very garish to her, thus, since he wouldn't be swayed from the idea of showering her with expensive gifts in the joy of their happy reunion, she picked this one instead.

Most of her dresses didn't have decorative belts, since adjusting the corset alone was a procedure she wasn't very fond of. It was probably the one thing she envied the women in Persia – she doubted any of them had ever seen a corset, much less tried it on. Otherwise, though, she was glad she was European and not one of the overly obedient wives and daughters, completely dependant on the male part of their families when it came to every aspect in their lives.

The jewelry was immediately stored away safely, since she was afraid to lose it, even though she wasn't overly attached to it. It would sadden Raoul, though. Well, he would probably be sad that she lost it because it would mean she lost something he gave her, but a second later, he would be saying that the lost item was unworthy of her and that there was this really beautiful new diadem he saw back in Paris, the newest fashion in Europe…

Once that was done, Christine undid the laces of her dress and, used to people barging into her dressing room even if she strictly said that no one should enter, she automatically moved behind the changing screen. It seemed as if she was finally able to breathe easily when she removed the corset, her feet were almost itching for a run when she got out of the skirt that was somewhat of a limitation of movement. But she was too tired to do that and it wouldn't be proper.

Slipping into a white nightgown, she carefully put the dress into her closet and moved to the mirror, taking out a metal hairbrush. Brushing her hair was sometimes and enjoyable process, at other times a real drag, since her hair was long and curls were hard to brush, especially if they were supposed to remain perfect and not turn into the semblance of an explosion on her head. At least she didn't have to pin her hair up yet.

So far, things were going well, she thought. But she still felt unease. Those eyes… she simply couldn't forget the sight. Often she had dreamed about them during solitary nights and lonely days, imagining the warmth that once was in them, then the pain and hoped that the former returned to them.

Dreams remained dreams.

But she remembered music, warmth, light… a rush of wind blew her candles out rapidly. It was then that she realized that the balcony door was opened and that the rule that hot climates are icy at night applied for the Far East as well. Putting her bush away, Christine went to the next room and closed the door immediately. The wind continued raging outside, but her room was now safe from its effects.

She could see well enough, even in the semi-darkness, because the rest of the palace was filled with lights. And besides, she meant to put the candles out in a few minutes anyway, so there was no point in repeating the process over and over again.

Picking up the brush from her vanity table, she looked at the object closely. It was an ordinary brush, really, without anything special about it, but she was getting so lost in her memories that she needed something to focus on.

_Too many years_

_Fighting back tears… _

_Why can't the past just die? _

Her eyelids slid shut for a moment as she fought with these words for a moment. Memories were like fireflies against the background night of her mind, flickering here and there, showing her a light that might have been created, then fading away back into the darkness.

_Painful memories  
Bring up silent tears_

_Always looking back at the fleeing years…_

_Help me say goodbye… _

_Though I am wishing you were somehow here again­…_

With a slight sigh, Christine looked into the mirror again, raising her hand to continue brushing her hair.

The object dropped out of her limp hand, out of her feeble grasp, falling to the ground with a pang. But then there was silence. Was the even breathing? Her eyes now seemed way too large for her face, her mouth was slightly open. There wasn't even the impulse to turn or stare. There was only shock.

The sound of her heartbeat seemed to be coming from her throat, where her heart indeed caught. Had she completely lost her mind? Or was this mirror really more than just a mirror – was it a door to another world, a world of her imagination, of her dreams?

"Erik?" her choked, unusually fragile voice whispered.

From shock, from lack of air, she swayed, her knees and legs giving away, and fell back. Before all turned dark, she felt someone catch her with ease and hold her protectively. Her final darkening vision was that of two golden eyes shining at her from behind a white mask.


	13. Chapter XIII

**Author's notes:** This chapter was purely the product of my boredom at school. The ending doesn't really mean anything – I'm not giving away the secrets yet! It could be anything, you know. Anyway, it's my birthday and I'm the one giving you presents! Ironic, isn't it?

**Hsibelius** – Don't worry, don't worry, here it is!

**Mina** – Yay! Cyber fudge!

**Mominator** – Mwahahaha!

**Bre** – I will, thanks!

**Enrinye**– I'm not gonna throw myself down a cliff after ya, Z!

**Sandra **– well… vaguely familiar, huh? Yes, they are finally reunited!

**Moonjava** – thanks!

X X X

**Chapter XIII**

X X X X

Touch.

The single thing denied to him throughout the years.

Touch and love.

The memory of holding an angel and watching her sleep, a faint smile remaining on her face, returned more than vividly. It was resurrected. He had anticipated the fainting spell and even if he wouldn't have, she fell slowly enough for him to catch easily.

It was an impulse to come here, really. The moment he knew it was indeed Christine, there was only one goal – to reach her. To see if she still remembered him. And then, to find out if the memory of him was a prized or a dreaded one.

Erik had about six seconds to see her looking into the mirror, her mind trying to determine if it was a mirage or reality. Then she said his name. She remembered. And for a moment, he managed to forget of her engagement to the Vicomte de Chagny as he admired her blanched face – the color was slowly returning, giving her cheeks a touch of rosy shades.

As if she were a ghost that could vanish easily, he held her limp form tightly, close to him. And she didn't pull away or shiver when coldness reached her flesh. A pale hand gently moved to caress the air just above her skin, then, fearfully and shyly, it made contact with her cheek, the touch feathery. Even now the coolness radiating from him didn't cause harm, but Christine sighed in her sleep softly, causing the hand to move away as quick as lightning.

Now wasn't the right time to wake her. After a long journey and a boring dinner, she had to be tired and the shock certainly didn't help. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow… tomorrow, the Vicomte would come for her. The boy would be allowed to touch her, receive her smiles… her kisses…!

Illusions were immediately shattered. In the presence of high society, Christine would likely quickly forget she ever knew him. And her fiancé would surely not be very happy to find out that she had once cared for someone like him, especially since that would require to elaborate why they were parted.

The golden orbs no longer shone warmth and love.

She was engaged. Why? Was the life of a diva not enough for her? With a voice of an angel and the appearance and personality matching that, to become a housewife would be an insult of her talent, a terrible waste! Or was she ensnared by the boy that much that she forgot her promises to her father – that she would study voice and become a prima donna?

Then again, the Vicomte was rich and handsome. He could provide her a life of wealth and comfort many women would kill and sell their souls for. Still, the Christine he knew and remembered spoke of poverty without shame, saying that music was what kept her family going. If she decided to marry and give up so much, there had to be more to the story than the surface belied. Some kind of background he never found out about.

Despite his own bitterness, it was still the boy he blamed, however.

Gently, he picked up Christine and carried her to the bed, laying her there. He brushed stray curls away from her face with care and admired the angel that had once again been thrust into his grasp.

Were it up to him, he would have stayed there all night, simply watching her and remembering the few moments of happiness they once shared. Senses told him, however, that someone was hurrying down the nearby corridor, a sound that made him withdraw swiftly and appear once more in the shadows of the corridor, a few steps behind the briskly walking figure.

"There is no need to patrol the palace tonight, daroga." Erik noted, with mild amusement, "Enough guards are watching over the guests."

The Persian almost did a double take as the sound of the voice reached him clearly, as if Erik were standing next to him. He turned swiftly and marched back to the masked man, outrage mixed with desperation on his face.

"You know I tolerate your disappearances, Erik, but couldn't you have picked a better night for showing-off your magician's skills? We should have been out of town by now!" he sighed dramatically, "Never mind that; what made you run off like that? Was the delegacy carrying a large chunk of ancient ruins you wanted to study? The last time you ran off like that, it was because of relics."

"Something from the past, yes, but not for studying. Only for admiration and care. Not all beautiful things in this world are made of stone, though some have their heart made of it. You cannot tell the difference until you see beneath the surface."

"Are you going to answer me or will the cryptic response have to suffice for the night?"

Erik shrugged lightly, "I am speaking quite clearly, daroga. Whether or not you understand my words is your problem alone."

"Can we at least go now?" Nadir shuddered slightly. "Sneaking off like this in the middle of the feast won't be easy…"

"We will manage just fine." Erik interrupted.

"…and I promised Reza I would come as soon as possible."

"Then off we go. I have just thought of a new trick to show him."

Nadir saw quite well that this was an attempt made to change the topic from whatever Erik sought to see. Though the Persian wasn't sure what it was yet, it was obviously of high importance to him. As a policeman by nature, he cautiously remembered where exactly Erik had reappeared, just for the sake of having the slightest idea where to begin the investigation as soon as they would return to Tehran.

X X X

Ironically, it was the sunlight that had woken her.

The gentle sunrays had entered the chamber, shining almost directly on her bed and into her eyes, causing her to squint. Christine wasn't a morning person, though she had gotten used to the tight schedule of the performers at the conservatoire. Night was beautiful to her, it had always been, for it reminded her of the happy days in Rome.

Opening her eyes, she observed the room around her. Persia, she remembered. So that part of the dream was real. She remembered a fancy dinner, then she unpacked her things, went to close the balcony door and then… she gasped.

With a single swing of her legs, Christine was on her feet, immediately running to the mirror. Her hands traced it, examined it, with effort, she actually managed to move it a bit away from the wall to see if there was something behind it… there was nothing. The mirror was perfectly normal, ordinary, if not overly polished. Nothing distinguished it from any other mirror.

Sighing, she threw herself on the bed. So it was a dream after all. But… now that she thought about it­… it couldn't have been a dream­. In her dreams, she saw Erik as she remembered him – a boy of fifteen, clearly tall and strong-built, but still a boy. In the mirror, yesterday night, she saw a man who she could have sworn a thousand times over was him.

The white mask was one of the few things that remained the same about him, but it wasn't that why she recognized him. It was the sparkling golden eyes. That was her first proof. She would have recognized the eyes anywhere. Then came the mask. What she saw of his face bore familiar features, his hair remained the same – dark and smooth, the color that matched his clothing.

It was Erik, without a doubt.

Things didn't make sense now. She would have to investigate this later. Currently, however, getting dressed was her first privilege, as she heard a soft knocking on the door.

"Little Lotte, are you awake?" Raoul´s voice asked from the corridor.

"Yes, Raoul, but I am still in my nightclothes – I need time to dress."

"Very well. I will come for you in five minutes – we have breakfast with the shah again. Will that be enough time for you to prepare?"

She nodded, though he couldn't see it. "It will. I will hurry."

Quickly moving to the closet, she chose a sky blue dress with little cornflowers on it as a sufficient morning attire and darted to the vanity table to prepare herself.

X X X

Throughout the whole stay at Nadir's house, Erik was rather detached from the events of the physical world, entering it only to please Reza, Nadir's son, with a new trick. Erik found he had a slight weakness for the boy, partially because he was so sick, partially because the boy accepted him without a second thought.

Nadir often saw him simply sitting in the garden, staring into space for hours at a time, just thinking. Not that thinking about things for long periods of time was unusual when it came to Erik, but this time, there was an aura of calm and satisfaction around him, as if something had managed to calm the fires that always seemed to burn within him.

Sometimes, the Persian would try to ask what was happening, but the answer was either irritated or cryptic, thus it seemed that either Erik was having fun infuriating him or, more probably, didn't want to answer the question… not yet.

He hated to admit it and certainly wouldn't say it out loud, but at times, he found himself counting each second until he would see Christine. He had no idea what to say to her, how to resume what had been cut off so abruptly five years ago, but knew that he had to see her and talk to her, whatever it would cost.

The return to Tehran, though it was just a day afterwards for Erik – Nadir was allowed to have a bit of a vacation for a few days, but the "eight wonder of the world" had to be present at the Persian court at all times - seemed to be an eternity later. The journey didn't take too long, thoughts of what lied ahead occupying him, until he finally reached the royal palace and had several servants feed his horses sufficiently. He cared for the animals enough to wait a few more moments until beginning his search for Christine.

It didn't take long.

It was as if the very essence of her stood out in the palace, but tracking her didn't prove as hard as one might have thought it would. He found her in the gardens where, apparently, the shah had decided to have a talk with her and the Vicomte, with him concerning the state affairs, with her concerning flattery and her feelings about becoming an aristocrat, probably.

He watched the group from afar for some time, because the sight of his angel was breathtaking, though in his opinion, the word was nowhere near describing what he felt. In a creamy off-white lace dress, clearly made of silk, she truly seemed to be an angel, the fabric giving the illusion that at any given moment, she could fly away.

Apparently, however, the dark colors he wore were a bit eye-catching, though he stood in the shadows of the building. The shah somehow noticed him and immediately made his way towards him, leaving the group behind with a polite excuse.

"Back already, my friend?" he asked.

Erik lowered his gaze as respectfully as he could. "I thought your majesty might be in need of my services, so I came. If not, please tell me how much time I have until that moment comes and I will use it for more productive activities than spying on diplomats."

The shah grimaced a bit. "At least you have plenty to see this time. The young Vicomte´s fiancée isn't the worst sight I've seen, quite the contrary." He then frowned. Showing off with such a talented servant was probably the best thing he could do! The idea quickly came to his mind. "Come, I shall introduce you to them. They are a young couple, French, like you, you might find some happiness in hearing your own language for a change."

After a brief calculation in his mind if this was a good idea, Erik decided to agree.

Several hundred feet away, Christine Daaé was turning pale as the tall man the shah had been conversing with stepped into the light. Even paler as she recognized him easily. Raoul´s words about how wonderful her dress was went unnoticed by her. There was nothing in the world, only the sight in front of her. Again, she had to remember to breathe.

It was Erik.

And he was looking at her, she knew, ever since the beginning, ever since he and the shah began walking towards them.

"My European friends, I would like to introduce Erik, my advisor and our resident eight wonder of the world, to you." The interpreter translated the shah's words to them.

Raoul seemed fascinated by the man in front of him, especially by the mask and the air around him that was filled with authority and mystique, the shah was too busy beaming with pride, thus no one noticed how Christine's breathing quickened. She closed her slightly opened mouth, prying her eyes away from the golden orbs that seemed to see right through her. She couldn't shake off the gaze, however.

"A pleasure to meet you both." Erik noted with polite indifference, still looking at Christine.

Raoul, surprised at hearing French, took no notice of this. "You are French, Monsieur?"

Briefly, Erik glanced at him. "Yes. My parents were both French, though it has been years since I have seen the country. I have traveled too far and for too long."

"Fascinating. I am Raoul de Chagny," he noted, extending his hand, which Erik took for a very short moment, releasing it almost immediately. It was still enough for the young nobleman to feel the coolness of the touch. Dismissing it, he took Christine's hand and brought her forward, vaguely noticing that as she walked those few steps, she trembled. "and this is Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, my fiancée and the future Vicomtesse."

Christine sucked in a breath as she met Erik's challenging gaze, daring her to play this game, and extended a timid hand towards him. Controlling his eagerness to grasp it, he looked at it with something close to fascination, then tenderly took it and gently brought it to his lips.

"An honor, Mademoiselle." He noted smoothly as he held the hand a bit longer, almost refusing to be parted from it.

Christine managed to regain her voice. "The honor is mine, Monsieur." she replied, silently praying that no one would take notice of the loud beats of her heart.

In that precise moment, however, it didn't matter the slightest. As he held her hand, Erik noticed one small detail he had missed before and the world turned upside down again. Was there no time to go shopping before they left? But no… that wasn't logical. Only one thing remained for sure.

The slender hand in his grasp lacked an engagement ring.


	14. Chapter XIV

**Author´s notes**: This is the confrontation scene, thus what you´ve been waiting for since you found out Christine was in Persia. I hope it´s realistic, because I didn't want Erik to be fluffy in this chapter. Actually, I don't want him to be fluffy in any chapter, since he´s not supposed to be fluffy. This is Kay´s Erik, people – cynical, mysterious, with murderous instincts… and, let´s face it, drop-dead sexy. So no, he´s not supposed to be fluffy.

**Enrinye **– here you go!

**Mominator** - here you go!

**Mina** - here you go!

**Sandra** - here you go!

**Moonjava** - here you go!

X X X

**Chapter XIV **

X X X X

If there were any other people around them, preferably people who took good notice of their surroundings, they would probably be very surprised to see the strange scene before them, a true masquerade, where only two knew just how think the web of events that was closing in around them was.

Still they held hands, facing each other, silent, motionless.

One was gathering all the remaining courage and boldness that was trying to flee from a weakening grasp. Never before, not even during perilous times or life-affecting moments, though there were few of them, was she faced with such a situation. She didn't know if she should turn and run, no matter where, simply run as fast as she could and, hopefully, hide somewhere far away or stay and confront things head-on.

The other was mildly amused by her reaction on one hand, on the other, a feeling of possessiveness was threatening to take over. It was what kept him from releasing her again, as would be proper and respectful. The eyes he was looking at were wide and fearful, almost pleading, but most of all, they flashed with recognition and uncertainty. Clearly, reality had just returned to take over her thinking again. A chance to destroy much was at hand… and he didn't use it.

Did she think he would use it? Probably yes. But the fascinating concept of ruining what seemed to be a perfect engagement between her and the boy had its drawbacks. One, it would affect his position, which wasn't his current interest, not before finishing his work on the palace. Two, the five words she had uttered ever since they had met were simply not enough to tell him what he wanted to find out. And three, in a war of one, perhaps two, if she wouldn't resent him, against a country, their chances of victory were somewhat slight.

The grasp on her creamy skin weakened and Christine pulled her hand back. It felt as if she were a child that tried to see if she could touch fire and got her hand burned, badly. Contrary to the coldness Raoul felt after being released, she felt flames. The single questionable thing was whether it was because of his touch or the furious blush that must have appeared on her face, forcing her to look away again.

At last, the burning eyes moved away from her, because the shah chose that moment to speak. Or it seemed that way to both Erik and Christine, for neither had been really paying attention to whatever was happening around them in the past few minutes. Erik's guess was that, because of the shah's obvious need to impress people, the king would start rambling about his importance to the monarchy and the wonders he created. As usual, his guess was precise.

"…after hearing such a tale, who would believe it, especially when it came from a common trader?" the shah was asking. Raoul nodded after hearing the translation, but the story progressed without a pause. "But, nevertheless, if such a man existed, his talents were greatly wasted in Russia, as I'm sure you'll agree. Thus I had our resident daroga – chief of police, you probably haven't heard the term before – go search for him. As you can see, successfully, and they even managed to create and maintain a semi-friendly relationship, to my knowledge, do correct me if I'm wrong, Erik." The shah turned to him, secretly pleased with his own hidden interrogation.

Erik shook his head. "Nadir Khan did all you ordered, your majesty." he noted simply.

"Yes, indeed." the shah commented. He then proceeded to explain all the major things Erik had constructed, designed or planned for the rebuilt Tehran, the services he had offered the shah and the khanum, the tricks and magic he had shown them during feasts, what would be created in the future and so on.

Raoul was fascinated. Anyone who would see the degree of his interest now would compare him to a young boy who had been brought to a circus and had seen the first tricks of a famous magician, and was most eager to see the rest of the performance. The only thing he was still unsure about was why the man he had been introduced to chose to cover his face with a mask. In February, during a masquerade ball, he would make nothing of it – all would be masked, naturally – but now, in the middle of summer, he was bewildered by the sight.

His mind debated whether or not he should ask about it. In the end, he decided against it. It could offend the man in some way and the last thing the Vicomte wanted was to insult the shah's favorite. Besides, there was something deep within the man's eyes that disturbed him. As if there was some deep-rooted, primal loathing there… at least he saw it when Erik looked at him, or he thought it did. The eyes alone were, if you will, eye-catching. Gold was an unusual color, to say at least. He had to admit, though, that it was one of the least unusual details about the man – Erik, he reminded himself.

Again, that surprised him. The shah made no mention of a last name and Erik didn't bother correcting him. Travels, he remembered, were a good reason for not seeing his family often. But surely the man knew his own last name! Even orphans knew who they were, most of them were aware of their parents´ names as well. Or perhaps the man knew his name, but didn't wish to remember it. Yes… that made perfect sense. A bad childhood wasn't something people liked to remember. If he didn't even want to hear the surname, let alone bear it, it must have been dreadful indeed.

Was it the mask? Raoul frowned inwardly. Its true purpose was still unknown to him, but as he began thinking about it with less of his attention focused on the feeling of fascination, he seemed to understand. He had seen deformities – who hadn't? – but imagined that if such a theory was correct, no parent would have love for such a misfortunate child.

These evaluations were one of the primary reasons why he missed the glances, the fear, the anticipation, all that had passed between the tall, dark man and the trembling girl standing next to him, who took care not to touch anyone, lest she would reveal the ripples of confusion and emotion passing through her body.

"A most unusual story, your majesty." the Vicomte noted afterwards, "I daresay I envy your determination. I suppose I wouldn't have gone this far to confirm the words of a trader, especially words that would seem so far-fetched to me. But I will take your word for it. You will have to show me some of your magic someday, Monsieur." he added to Erik, "I am most curious about it, especially if your talent matches the enormity of the tales I've heard."

For a long moment, Erik simply looked at the boy, until Raoul felt almost uncomfortable under the intense gaze. His pride, however, refused to allow him to look away. But he didn't deny the desire to do so. Then, Erik nodded slowly, speaking once more with polite indifference, but the tone was obviously cooler than before.

"Gladly, Monsieur le Vicomte." The temptation to add the statement that he would gladly perform a disappearing trick on him was strong. Truly, that was one trick he wouldn't mind showing the Vicomte de Chagny, even at the immediate moment.

"Splendid." Turning to Christine, he smiled. "Would you enjoy that, Christine?" he didn't even wait for the reply. "I told you that our stay would be wonderful, Little Lotte."

Pushing back a disbelieving stare, Christine nodded, now almost nervous in appearance. "Yes, Raoul." Her last strength was used to force her gaze to return to Erik, in one last show of defiance and will. "Thank you for your kindness, Monsieur." Strength fled traitorously, even quicker than she imagined and, like Raoul, she found herself wishing that she didn't have the boldness to look back at Erik.

Erik returned his attention to her and if anyone would be paying much closer attention, they would see the coolness of his demeanor lift slightly. Truth to be told, the joke was still amusing, but now that he saw Christine on the edge of psychical resignation and surrender, he decided that she had been tormented by the reunion more than she deserved, scared more than he intended to frighten her.

Glancing at her ringless hand for a moment, the remnants of hostility were retreating. He nodded politely, without saying a word. By this time, however, Raoul noticed that even for a woman of Scandinavian origin, Christine was too pale and certainly somewhat too timid. Chirpiness, one of her wonderful personality traits, was gone. Was it simply still a state of exhaustion from the journey? Or perhaps…

"Christine, are you alright?" he inquired, receiving a simple nod in response. His concern grew, because he realized that she probably wasn't used to the sheer heat around them yet. "Is it the heat? Are you feeling well?"

That came as a welcome excuse, Christine decided. She wouldn't get a second chance to get away from this and she had absolutely no idea when her last self-control would vanish, other than the knowledge that it would be very, very soon, especially, if the hypnotic gaze would remain fixed upon her.

"I am a little dizzy, Raoul. It's nothing, just a slight headache." she assured him when concern appeared on his face. "From the heat, I suppose. I am unused to so warm a climate, thus such things are not to be unexpected. I will get over it, but I could probably use a walk."

"Will you find your way?" the Vicomte still seemed unsure of the rightness of the idea of letting her wander around the gardens alone, but when he saw the look on her face that dared him to argue with her, he resigned and chose not to object.

"The palace is nearby and I remember where the entrance is. Besides, I prefer exploring on my own. The servants know who I am and with this," she motioned to her pale complexion, "I really stand out here, so they can't mistake me for anyone."

Raoul, still glancing at her with doubts, managed a nod. The interpreter had already translated most of the dialogue to the shah, so there was no real surprise when a suggestion was flung at them, a convenient, outrageous, mortifying suggestion, from three points of view.

"Perhaps you would care to accompany the mademoiselle, Erik?" the shah noted suddenly. The reasons for such a suggestion were alien to two of the people standing nearby, but Raoul seemed to think it was a good idea.

"I would feel better if you would, Monsieur. Christine, while she no doubt has spirit, is still too precious to me not to arouse concerns at the thought of allowing her to get lost in these vast gardens."

The frantic look on Christine's face went mostly unnoticed, her attempts to object – silently, because she didn't really find any logical statement against that without exaggerating or making the situation seem far more suspicious than it already was, which, for the record, to her, seemed nearly impossible – were silenced completely a moment later.

"Of course, Monsieur." Erik noted smoothly, "I shall see to the safety of Mademoiselle Daaé, do not worry for her anymore."

"Excellent. I am in your debt, sir."

Christine didn't hear anymore. Or rather, she didn't register anymore. Vaguely, she thought she saw Raoul taking and squeezing her hand for a moment, wishing her a swift recovery from the change of climate. Before she knew it, Raoul, the shah, the interpreter – all of them – were gone, leaving the pair standing in a more than awkward silence.

"The gardens are this way, Mademoiselle." The entrancing voice reached her again, as hypnotic as ever. Abandoned, lonely, and no longer able to resist, no longer willing to defend herself against anything, especially not a call so strong, Christine felt herself nod in despair and began walking in the direction she had been shown.

A step behind her, Erik drifted after her like a shadow. All had transpired a bit too quickly, but he wasn't ungrateful for the opportunity. It was almost like taking a prisoner to a walk out of their cell – Christine was in a trance, mixed despair and weary resignation radiating from her, obediently doing exactly what he instructed her to do. They walked in silence until they almost reached the center of the gardens, where Christine stopped, closing her eyes tightly.

"Please stop this." she whispered, her voice choked.

"Stop what?" the soft question reached her, only confirming her feeling of near-hypnosis.

All of this."

"I am doing nothing, Mademoiselle."

Her eyes almost darted open, but they were anguished rather than angry. "You lie."

"If you are so able to tell apart truth and lies, Mademoiselle, you should be in politics. This country is in dire need of someone who with such an ability, as is probably every other land on this earth." Erik replied dryly, "Then again, I doubt the bureaucracy would appreciate that."

Almost wildly, she spun around, facing him. "Why?" she asked, "Why…? How…? I…" she ran her hands through her hair, sighing loudly, "I… I don't know what to say…"

"There is nothing to say, Mademoiselle." Erik noted coolly, "The past is in the past, and the future Vicomtesse de Chagny surely has no need to associate herself with… suspicious individuals, if you will. Am I not correct?" Her shudder at the sound of the title didn't go unnoticed.

"So you have heard…" she whispered.

"I would safely assume that there is no one in the radius of a few miles who hasn't. Your precious fiancé is rather fond of announcing the fact, is he not? Not that he has no right to be proud of it." he noted, more quietly, before raising his voice once more, "Then again, it is a bit embarrassing that a wealthy gentleman couldn't buy his chosen a proper engagement ring."

Christine felt herself blush furiously. The damned ring! She knew she should have agreed to pick one, but like with the necklace, the variety of engagement rings she had been shown were pompous, thick, and the word bejeweled was a gross simplification of their appearance. How she would have preferred a simply golden band, with no gemstones! Unfortunately, Raoul would have none of it. His Little Lotte would have only the best, he insisted.

Now, this vanity was proving very disadvantageous for her. Her gaze dropped for a moment, but the redness of her cheeks wouldn't disappear. "Or has he forgotten about such a petty detail?" Erik noted, triumphantly ironical.

"For a person who knows that I despise new levels of pathetic and pompous overdone designs, you seem to have misjudged my taste in jewelry." She noted, fighting back timidity.

Whatever hope the ringless hand brought was ultimately crushed. So she wasn't denying anything. It was true, the ultimate decision had been made and the illusion of hope would be corrected as soon as they would find something suitable to Christine's tastes. There was no display of emotion for Christine to see, other than the few rushes of emotion of temporary length. But her ability to determine emotion through them seemed to have diminished or his control over revelations of such clues had grown over the years.

"I should be congratulating you for a happy engagement, Mademoiselle." The tone definitely implied he believed the contrary.

"Please call me Christine." she noted quietly, "Years may have passed and events may have transpired, changing us both, but you have never lost the right to use that name to address me."

"It wouldn't be proper, Mademoiselle." Was the stern reply. "Not any longer. We both have our duties here and we are no longer innocent children­. I never was an innocent child and you are also past the days of naivety. Effectively, we managed to suggest that we knew nothing of each other before the present day. It would be best if we would keep it like that." His lips curled into a cynical smile. "It seems that your wish for a fairytale has come true, Mademoiselle. Your prince had come. What need is there for a monster to reenter your life?"

He was gone before she could open her mouth to object, before he could notice her silent tears.


	15. Chapter XV

**Author's notes:** Enter Nadir! Let the investigation begin!

**Mina** – (takes award for Best Story) I'd like to thank my phantasy, for my crazy ideas, my mind, for the obsession with PotO, my muse, Erik, for existing and my computer, for making it all possible.

**Mominator –** Kay's Erik just isn't fluffy. Read on! Oh, and I edited it!

**Sandra** – (cheers)

**Enrinye** – you try typing when you are forbidden to be on the net and your parents are on the couch behind you, Z! Here you go, let's see what you think. Anyway, I think I might do a fic about the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, what do you think?

X X X

**Chapter XV **

X X X

Days dragged on in an endless sea of heat and pompous parties. It seemed that ever since the Chagnys and Christine had arrived, there was not a day without a feast, no evening without a celebration dinner. The whole palace had gone mad in an effort to impress the wealthy and influential aristocrats in every possible way, but, in Erik's opinion, succeeded only in making utter and complete idiots out of themselves.

That was the only positive and at least a bit humorous thing about the entire situation.

Bright and awed at the beginning, Christine had changed into a timid introvert within a few hours, talking scarcely, often locked in her chambers, doing things no one knew about. It reminded him, with mortifying authenticity, of the final week in Rome and there were times when he could have sworn that he heard the soft sound of singing echo through the halls. Or perhaps it was merely in his mind. After all, her voice had been in his head for the past five years, why would it disappear now?

After his initial fury had faded, day after day, self-hatred took its place more and more as Erik watched her inner light fade. Such torture was unbearable, even for him, but whenever the more empathic side of him took over or was close to doing so, the image of the boy rushing to comfort her, be it real or imaginary, appeared. Eventually, however, when he saw her in the gardens one day in what bore a much too realistic semblance of a mourning gown, the remnants of his anger turned to despair and whatever remained of the former was now aimed, along with seething hatred, at Raoul de Chagny.

All could have been solved, perhaps, if he chose to approach Christine again. But the instinctive awareness that after leaving her alone and yelling such cruel things at her, whatever childish affection or even pity she had perhaps held for him was gone, replaced by fear and realization that maybe he wasn't too far off when he called himself a monster.

Like years ago, his protective shield became his devotion to work. It seemed a lifetime since he had written music, he realized, and he wasn't pleased the least with the discovery of neglecting something so close to his heart for so long. As a result, he proceeded to write down some of his favorite arias. His incomprehensively vivid and accurate memory of every event that had transpired in the years of his life allowed him to remember every opera and musical composition he had ever read, heard or seen, be it the melody, the notes, the orchestra or instrument playing it or the vocals singing it.

Nadir had found him like that three days after Erik began writing, little more a week after the Chagnys and Christine had arrived. He had returned to the palace, creating no commotion, not even having the briefest reception before returning to "work". The image of a furiously working Erik was not one he was unfamiliar with, thus he immediately knew that the situation urged caution. Though by no means an introvert, Erik had one habit that was often associated with introverts – he was very unpleasant when someone interrupted his work, especially work he was passionate about.

When Nadir thought about it for a moment, he found he couldn't really name a type of work Erik wasn't passionate about, if it was done according to his instructions and with his supervision.

The scribbling of a pen on paper stopped and Erik looked at what he had written with a frown that was hidden from the Persian's view. It was close, very close… in a moment, he crushed the paper into a ball and threw it to the nearest rubbish bin. Close wasn't enough. The first half was decent, but it wasn't it. Then, recognizing a sound behind him, he turned around briefly, the frown disappearing for a moment at the sight of the Persian.

"Oh, you're back." Erik noted, slightly tonelessly. He immediately took out a new sheet of paper, examined it for a moment, then placed it on the table and began writing again. "How is Reza? He seemed better when I saw him, psychologically. Happier."

The Persian wanted to ask what in the name of Allah was he trying to do now, but decided he didn't like the nervous edge to Erik's voice. Apparently, something wasn't going well. "Reza is better… or was, until you left." Nadir replied with a hint of an accusation.

Naturally, the boy, who was, like mostly everyone else, amazed by Erik's skills, was nearly heartbroken when his father had announced that Erik couldn't stay for long. Reza, his sight failing bit by bit, grew almost overly attached to the masked magician, who felt the same about the boy. It was a strange friendship they had, but it was one of the things that kept the sick boy alive and happy for a very long time.

"The rushed departure wasn't to my liking, you know that well." Erik noted, turning back to the policeman from his desk. "I shall have to visit more often, then. When is the boy's birthday?" Then, without waiting an answer, he waved a hand impatiently. "It doesn't matter. I shall bring him some nice presents when I come visit next time and see if he had learned that new trick."

"What are you working on this time?" Nadir finally chose to ask it, not least of all because he saw the pile of torn sheets and paper balls.

"Writing down a few music pieces." It sounded almost nonchalant, but the daroga could see the impatience of the statement. "I have denied music for too long, far too long…" he trailed off for a moment, shaking his head. "Between the two so-called monarchs, their demands, the palace and everything else, I have little time for myself. I wanted to start composing my own pieces, but then I decided to write down some of my favorites first."

"What happened after you returned?" Catching the light frown behind the mask, Nadir's first suspicions were confirmed. So something has happened and this wasn't just a wild goose chase. If there was one thing he didn't believe about the whole speech he had just listened to, it was the part about Erik's liking of the departure.

After a moment of silence, Erik softly replied: "Look for crimes and plots in different parts of the palace, daroga. Clues to conspiracies and evidence of betrayal is not what I keep in these chambers. You should try the true politicians´ apartments."

"This isn't about state affairs, Erik." the Persian noted sternly, "It's about you. Something has happened the night the delegacy had arrived and I would be very intrigued if you would humor me and tell me why you abandoned me in the middle of the courtyard and then reappeared near the diplomatic chambers."

"What grand tale that would satisfy your curiosity am I supposed to invent, daroga?" The hint of a hiss behind those words caused Nadir to take a subconscious step back. "What revelation do you expect to hear? My affairs are my own and when something angers me, even I cannot restrain myself. Prying into my past is one of the things that angers me, you know. And you are quite close to doing that, close indeed."

Erik, who had risen from his chair, sunk back into it, glaring daggers at the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be the couch. Though Nadir couldn't tell, in his mind, the couch was a wooden table to which the Vicomte de Chagny was tied and a large axe on a rope, swinging, was slowly descending. It was an attempt to redirect his anger from the Persian to someone who really deserved it, not aim it at a friend.

Meanwhile, Nadir crouched and picked up a sheet of paper that was seemingly untouched, merely misplaced and currently on the ground in the middle of a mess of papers. Knowing Erik, the mess would be gone within the hour, but he decided to see why this paper didn't suffer the fate of the rest of the unsuccessful attempts at creating something beautiful.

At first glance, it was a normal paper, without anything special. Then he saw that the fingers of his hand were now slightly gray, as if they had brushed against a thick layer of pencil lines. As Nadir turned the paper around to get a look of the other side, he immediately realized why. It wasn't, like the other papers, a composition.

It was a sketch.

And it wasn't just an ordinary design of the palace, for that wouldn't strike him as suspicious at the least. This was a detailed drawing, so realistic and beautiful that he simply had to stare at it for a few moments in awe until he even began looking at the picture closely, examining every line and every layer, still unable to comprehend how something like that could be created.

It was a portrait.

A portrait of a young woman, to be exact. Though black and white, since it was done in pencil only, it made anything else he had seen pale in comparison. Nadir didn't know the face, but could easily imagine it in real life. In a moment, however, the picture had been snatched from his hands and returned to the desk with almost an air of worshipping.

Nadir watched Erik, completely bewildered by this change of behavior, then glanced at the picture on top of the desk, curious about a great many things. Who was that? Certainly not just an imaginary model. The emotional response was too strong to confirm that hypothesis. Someone close to him, perhaps. Someone…

"Who is she?" the Persian asked quietly.

"An angel." Was the only reply he got before Erik sat back down once more and began writing, pointedly ignoring him in every aspect. After a few minutes, Nadir saw that for today, he had caused enough complications. It would be wisest to leave Erik to cool down for some time before asking that again.

X X X

Nadir Khan wasn't an easily surprised person. As a policeman, he had encountered a great many strange things over the years, seen quite a bit of the world and done a fair share of deeds for his part. Wandering aimlessly around the palace wasn't his idea of a good afternoon, especially since that meant thinking about what had happened. But if there was one thing he knew well, it was that with Erik, nothing was as it seemed. And he wasn't even counting the magic tricks into that group of things.

A desire to get away from the building brought him to the gardens, where he again wandered aimlessly, but at least could see the sun and breathe fresh air. The palace itself was more like a ruin to skilled eyes, but the gardens were well preserved, certainly worthy of notice at least because of their size. For someone like him, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

Even if he would be truly paying attention, it would be anything out of the ordinary. He himself was a prince, though as the wretched proverb Erik favored said, the princes outnumbered the camels and fleas in Persia. The sunlit gardens could have impressed people who had never visited them, but not him. The sights and sounds were not impressive.

Then, he suddenly changed his opinion about the sounds. In the middle of nowhere, he heard a soft whisper of a song that was completely foreign to him, yet somehow strangely familiar, as if he had heard a similar tune before, but… no. No, he didn't recognize the words of the song, partially because he truly hadn't heard them before, partially because his French wasn't completely perfect. The phrases repeated themselves, however, so after hearing them a few times, he understood most of the lyrics. The meaning still remained a mystery.

_In sleep he sang to me_

_In dreams he came…_

_That voice which calls to me_

_And speaks my name…_

_And do I dream again?  
For now I find…_

_His music is forever there_

_Inside my mind…_

Following the whisper of a shaking voice and the quiet sobs that followed, the Persian reached the source of the singing in less than a minute. It was a woman, he could tell that before she came into view. But it wasn't her tears or her French song or her dark dress and pale skin that bewildered him. It was the meaning of the song itself, which seemed to flee from his grasp the harder he tried to comprehend the words.

Her face was hidden in her hands when he saw her, she was trying to stop herself from an emotional breakdown. Nadir had never seen her before. When she revealed her face, he understood just how wrong he was. Even from afar, even though the heartbroken expression was far different from the gentle smile he saw before, it was clearly the woman from the portrait.

Suddenly, seeing her dark dress, Nadir remembered and realized why the song seemed familiar. He had heard one voice sing a similar one months ago, a voice equally breathtaking, but far from anguished. After all, Erik never sounded anguished.

But he also remembered something else.

Regaining his posture, the Persian decided to approach the strange woman. The dress made her seem older than she really was – he saw that she couldn't have been over twenty. At the sound of someone approaching her, she jumped and quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. Nadir watched with fascination as she went from anguished to sad, from sad to calm and from calm to controlled in expression.

"Mademoiselle," he began, in his best French, "are you alright? I thought I heard someone crying."

She shook her head fervently, though she was obviously surprised that he spoke her language. "I am quite alright, Monsieur, thank you for your concern."

"Then why the mourning dress?"

Looking down at her dark skirt, the woman sighed. "Please do not ask, Monsieur. The reasons are plenty, but the wound is still too fresh. And explaining my troubles to a stranger, no matter how polite and kind he may be, is not my habit."

Nadir bowed hastily. "Forgive my manners, my name is Nadir Khan, I am the resident daroga, the chief…"

"…of police, yes, the shah has mentioned you." she finished for him, smiling very slightly, "I have heard of you."

The Persian returned the expression. "Not any bad things, I hope."

"Far from it, Monsieur."

"That is pleasing, Mademoiselle Christine."

The woman frowned, "How do you know my name, Monsieur?" she asked, making no sign that she was offended with him addressing her that way.

Nadir, however, sighed deeply. So, everything fit into place after all.


	16. Chapter XVI

**Author's notes:** This turned out a page longer than I intended and the scene might yet be continued. Enter the khanum, folks! And that can only mean trouble!

**starnat** – three reviews! Yay! Thanks! I'm officially a year older! There are reasons for the ring… yes, thick tension. Very thick. Reasons for the dress are in this chapter.

**Enrinye** – Here goes the story, Z. I hope you like the khanum!

**Mominator **– edited and changed. Thanks for pointing that out. Typos happen.

**Mina** – hmm… we will see.

**Sandra** – two points for you. There wouldn't be a story. Anyway, Nadir only knows her name, nothing else. Nothing about Rome, clearly.

**Moonjava** – thanks!

X X X

**Chapter XVI **

X X X X

There was only one thing Erik was looking forward to when it was announced that the khanum wanted to speak with him – the moment he would be allowed to leave. While certainly cunning and perhaps attractive to some men, the shah's mother was devious, obnoxious and bloodthirsty, with certain sadistic urges.

This time, he maintained a neutral expression throughout the whole ordeal, listening to her – for there was really no other word to define it, royalty or not – whining. The reason for it was obvious to him before he was within three hundred feet from the harem. She was bored. Again. Not that it surprised him very much. Every trick and amusement had only a temporary effect on her, be it fireworks or the infamous hexagonal torture chamber, the now legendary terror in the whole country.

"There haven't been any amusing victims for a while." she complained, "Maybe you should find a new way of torturing victims, Erik. Or are you too busy with that damned pile of rock and mortar again? Should I forbid you entrance there again until you find some new amusement?"

The last time she threatened that, the result was the torture chamber. It was a productive way of earning amusement, but not to be toyed with. As most of the time when the khanum tried such provocation, Erik grasped the hem of his cape with both hands, using the black fabric as a means to vent his frustration.

"Or are you busy with something else?"

Had he been given a chance to display a full reaction, as the khanum usually expected him to do in vain hopes of extracting some kind of information about… anything, really, he would have pointed out that his obvious desire was to finish his work on the palace, as he constantly had to remind her.

Erik sighed in frustration. "Madame…" If she was going to start that topic again…

Once before had the khanum suggested that she could easily arrange that he would be given a woman from the harem and then proceeded to question him about the topic. Again, without receiving answers different than usual.

"The women here aren't to your liking… but perhaps that little French girl that had arrived has caught your interest – what was her name? Chantal? Catherine?" the khanum wasn't very efficient when it came to acting out a mock-amnesia. When no reaction came from him, no disappointment showed on her face. "Ah, yes. Christine. That is her name. My son said she was rather pretty. What do you think of her, Erik? You must have seen her already, with those two quite handsome Frenchmen. Tell me what you think of her."

Still eying her with contempt, Erik remained motionless, using every bit of self-control that he had left not to repeat the procedure used to amuse her on her own throat. "I prefer not to think of women, Madame."

"My son has the taste of a camel when it comes to women." the khanum said, with clear displeasure. "But perhaps a European might have more spine than the usual scum here – I doubt all Frenchmen are like yourself, but I am interested in seeing if a woman of your kind behaves similarly." she smiled, almost too sweetly, with some undefined cruelty and addressed a slave that obediently entered at her mistress´ bidding. "Bring the mademoiselle," It was also a resident nickname for Christine. Just as the Chagnys were known by their titles, the was known like this.… and the khanum took pleasure in emphasizing the word greatly. "to the harem. Tell her that I would be honored to have a brief chat with her."

X X X

Nadir sat down on the bench near the confused-looking girl. He never truly understood who the mysterious Christine was, not since he had heard Erik whisper the name back in Russia… or at least he thought he did. Back then, there were far too many important things to worry about than some image from the past of a man more mysterious than the sphinx and equally willing to answer his questions. The only issue was getting him safely to Persia.

Now, the issue was discovering what was going on, for whatever web of mystique had been around them before had thickened considerably.

This woman had some connection to Erik, he knew that perfectly. The question remained: what connection? He excluded the possibility of the two of them being family quickly, despite the slight similarities between them, such as pale skin and dark hair. A family reunion wouldn't require avoiding each other like the plague… and a mourning dress. Broken hearts, perhaps? Well, there were factors signifying proof of that.

He decided he needed to begin asking questions now, because his theories weren't making any progress whatsoever.

"Mademoiselle, there is much I yearn to ask you, but I don't want to make a mistake that would cost far more than it's worth. Therefore I have to answer with a question of my own."

Christine nodded, unsure what to make of all this. The Persian seemed sincere and kind, but also concerned for some reason. And if he had been absent for the past week – for he clearly had no idea of her semi-aristocratic status – how come he knew her name? Erik wouldn't speak of his past, there was no way of that transpiring. He had refused years ago when she first inquired and he claimed to love her back then.

"Mademoiselle," Nadir began calmly, "do you know…" At the precise moment, the fetching girl had emerged from behind the corner, spotted Christine and began calling something. Christine and Nadir looked at her as she stopped her sprint near them, panting and then saying some more.

Nadir frowned deeply. The khanum? That never meant any good. If… oh, Allah! If the khanum would find out even half of what he knew now­… he looked at Christine, who clearly had no knowledge of what the girl was saying.

"She says that the khanum wishes to speak with you."

"The khanum?" Christine repeated. Another word for her to learn. She seriously began considering learning these oriental languages, if only to pass the time.

"The shah's mother. In other words, the woman who runs this country." The Persian explained, "You must be careful, mademoiselle. She is rather devious if you make an enemy out of her and treats allies obnoxiously."

"Why on earth would she want to speak with me?"

Christine couldn't understand Nadir's concerns yet. And, since she would probably panic if she would, the daroga chose not to explain how much trouble the khanum could easily cause if for a moment she would see the slightest display of… anything, really, if his guess was correct and this chat of hers would concern what he thought it would. This young girl had no idea what number of things she could affect.

"I have a few ideas, but I cannot be sure." Each hunch returned to Erik, naturally. "Either way, you must take great care when picking your words. Reveal only what is necessary." He stood up and bowed slightly to Christine. "I shall trouble you no longer, mademoiselle."

"You still haven't told me how come you know my name, monsieur, and you said you have questions for me, though I must say I have no idea how I could help you." Christine confessed.

"Now is not the right time. If I may, I will seek you out when I am able and we can talk then." Nadir looked around for a moment. "Perhaps the palace isn't the safest place to talk. Would you accept the invitation to a friendly visit of my estate, with your fiancé, if you wish, mademoiselle? There would be far fewer untrustworthy ears listening."

With a slight frown, Christine nodded. "If it would be possible, I would be honored to come. Raoul is far too busy with state affairs to come, I'm afraid, but I shall come."

"Thank you, mademoiselle. I promise you that you shall get the answers you seek… hopefully, I shall receive some of those I need as well." Again, he bowed slightly. "Until we meet again, mademoiselle." Briskly, he walked away, hoping that even in her innocence, the girl had the wit to see past the khanum's charades.

Christine, for her part, was confused by the conversation and only vaguely noticed that the slave girl was still ushering her to the harem. Only when she entered did her train of thought break – if nothing else, the khanum's clothing definitely demanded attention. If she thought she had seen sequins and embroidery before, she was quite wrong.

"Ah, the lady arrives." The khanum noted, with an almost shark-like smile. Like her son, she also didn't speak French, but, just as Nadir had predicted, her way of detecting things was making Erik stay there and take on the role of her personal interpreter. Christine threw him a surprised glance, fortunately unnoticed by the khanum, then managed a weak smile at the other woman.

"But why the sad dress, my dear? You are soon to be a bride and not to mention that the weather is too hot for such a thick fabric and dark color." Introductions were unnecessary, really – the khanum knew her name and Christine had a good idea who she was talking to.

"My father died eleven years ago, your highness." Christine replied politely. "I can't visit his grave while here, thus I honor the memory of him at least by wearing this dress for a while."

It wasn't an outright lie – her father had indeed died eleven years ago and that was the primary reason for her outfit. It was also the reason for Raoul's attempts to comfort her, rather unsuccessfully, because combined with the recent events, she was on the verge of tears most of the time. Luckily, she had this as an excuse, as much as it shamed her. Erik, though he didn't react, unwillingly remembered what she had told him of her father and how they were happy together. It was rather egotistical of him to think that he would be the primary reason for her sadness, but he pushed away the nudge of shame easily. There wasn't time for such things now.

The khanum nodded. "That makes you very devoted to your father. I doubt there are many daughters – many children, in fact – out there that would mourn their dead parents after over a decade. You will find that in this country, religion dictates things of everyday lives perhaps even more than it does for you Christians." she smirked faintly, "Perhaps your mother gave you a too accurate name, my dear."

A bit uncertain what to make of that, Christine nodded. "I trust in her judgment, your highness."

"But enough of mourning the past. I have a decent amount of information about the customs of you Europeans. They say that even woman can find a job, if they wish it or if they need the money. Some quit after marriage… but it is interesting. What about you, mademoiselle?"

"I am a singer, milady." Christine explained, "I have studied voice since I was very young and have always wished to become a prima donna – the lead female singer of an opera house. Once I marry, however, that won't be possible."

"And can you sing well?"

"I hope so."

"Would you sing me something?" the khanum inquired, with a hint that it was meant to be more of an order, but the tone was softened to make it seem friendlier. At least that was what Erik registered in the tone. He did his best to make his translations sound indifferent and show nothing.

Contrary to how it seemed, he knew exactly what the khanum was trying to do. This wasn't about Christine in the least. This was about her own investigations, another attempt to see if he was lying or not when he claimed that he desired above all else to be able to finish his work in peace, not receive a concubine as the khanum sometimes assumed he wished. He himself was quite ignorant – much to Nadir's surprise – of the khanum´s intentions and despite everything maintained a child's essential innocence when it came to such things. The main dogma in his life was the rule that no woman would find the will to find him attractive with him remained fixed in his mind, though there were clear signals that the khanum thought otherwise.

Seeing Christine being questioned – quite rudely, her unease was obvious - by the damned woman who was the first to unleash the feeling that he was drowning in a sea of blood while in Persia wasn't at all pleasant. Nothing good would come out of that request, but he had to translate it nonetheless. For the first time, he actually looked at Christine, the pointed glance signifying that her best bet was to refuse. Politely, but refuse.

The single flaw in this plan was the fact that Christine pointedly ignored him – or tried to ignore him – for the entire length of the talking and had no knowledge of this silent advice. She remembered Nadir's words, however, and the guidance he had given her clearly implied that there was no need to make the khanum her enemy, lest she would wish to make a powerful enemy. Right now, squabbles with politicians and especially a woman like this one were the last thing she needed.

She didn't even answer, not with speech, at least. When she opened her mouth, she immediately began singing.

_O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn!  
Du bist unschuldig, weise, fromm;  
Ein Jüngling so wie du vermag am besten,  
Dies tiefbetrübte Mutterherz zu trösten.  
Zum Leiden bin ich auserkoren,  
Denn meine Tochter fehlet mir;  
Durch sie ging all mein Glück verloren,  
Ein Bösewicht entfloh mit ihr.  
Noch seh' ich ihr Zittern  
Mit bangem Erschüttern,  
Ihr ängstliches Beben,_

_Ihr schüchternes Streben.  
Ich musste sie mir rauben sehen,  
Ach helft! ach helft! war alles, was sie sprach.  
Allein vergebens war ihr Flehen,  
Denn meine Hilfe war zu schwach.  
Du, du, du wirst sie zu befreien gehen,  
Du wirst der Tochter Retter sein.  
Und werd' ich dich als Sieger sehen,  
So sei sie dann auf ewig dein._

As far as languages were concerned, German wasn't part of her arsenal, not fully, anyway, but she knew what she was singing about. Mozart wasn't one of those authors whose work you could simply forget after performing it, no matter how exhausted you might be afterwards. This was one of the hardest roles she had ever sung, the hardest, most probably but it was simply too beautiful to forget.

From the moment she began singing the first line, all of Erik's attention was now fully fixed on her. She had a lot of courage to simply start singing Die Zauberflöte with no warm-up and take on the hardest part. But from what he heard, he saw that this wasn't her first attempt at singing it. There were moments when she could have done better as far as pitch was concerned, where she seemed to be running out of air too fast or where she wasn't standing straight and it showed on her voice. Overall, however, it was probably the best attempt at singing the part he had heard. With a voice like hers (a voice that clearly remembered the training from long ago, despite the conservatoire's attempt to ruin it) there wasn't a chance for her to sing worse than a siren would.

The khanum was paying attention to both the singing and the atmosphere. She didn't care much for theater – not that culture hadn't been interesting in her youth, but she had long grown tired of the repeated amusement and yearned for more entertaining things. The girl wasn't bad, she had to admit and it wasn't the worst song she had heard, even if she didn't understand a thing. Her intention was a bit of torment and a bit of investigation. Fruitless, it seemed. Well, at least she had gotten her share of amusement for the afternoon.

"What opera was that from?" the khanum inquired afterwards.

"Mozart, Die Zauberflöte, fourth scene, the first aria of the Queen of the Night, Madame." Erik replied without translating, looking at one of the expensive carpets in front of him. Pitiful, really, that he had far better furniture than royalty in his apartment.

"Ah, I believe I have heard of that once or twice." the khanum noted, then returned her attention to Christine. "You sing well, my dear, your teacher must be proud of you."

_Why don't you ask him yourself?_ Christine wanted to say, but restrained herself from both that and glancing anywhere near Erik's direction. The rest of the conversation wasn't that eventful, it held more of a forced politeness than before. Even the air outside seemed to be freezing after she was finally allowed to leave.


	17. Chapter XVII

**Author's notes:** All right, lunch talk, here we go! It turned out to be a nice chapter, but beware the cliffhanger! I had to stop it there, because that will make the next chapter all the more dramatic.

**Sandra** – she will be back, you know, but maybe they will be able to avoid a slip.

**Mina** – I will finish it, don't worry. I re-planned it, but I will finish it. And don't worry, there will be romance… between who, I'm unsure. Just joking – Le Fop must suffer!

**starnat** – not yet, she isn't. But she's rather, um, lustful? It always made me laugh when Erik was totally impervious to that.

**Enrinye** – You're starting to sound like "A čo som slepý?" :) I didn't really bother reading the lyrics, they were too… lyrical. Hey, I like Mozart. Nadir is always curious, you know.

**Moonjava - **thanks, here you go!

X X X

**Chapter XVII **

X X X X

Only a day later, Christine sought Nadir out and announced that whenever he wanted to leave, they could. The daroga was glad – not only would they finally progress somewhere, but they would be able to avoid more foolish mistakes. That visit to the harem was far too risky, especially when there was nothing they could do about it.

They met up early the next day near the palace gates. This time, Christine chose to overlook etiquette to make their journey faster – she left the elaborate dresses behind, choosing a much more comfortable riding outfit, consisting of a non-corseted shirt and vest and leather trousers with riding boots. Overall, she looked boyish from afar with her hair tied back in a simple ponytail, with no jewelry visible.

The only person she had alerted to her departure was Raoul, whom after being assured that she was alright and learning who her host would be, agreed to let her go, if she would safely return as soon as possible. As Christine had predicted, he was too busy to accompany her and she didn't bother offering that. She wanted to be able to talk freely.

Neither of the pair spoke much during the entire length of the journey, their primary reason being lack of privacy. Christine wrapped a jacked around herself to shield herself from the heat, as per Nadir's advice. Hot it might have been, but letting her skin get burned was far worse than a little more heat. But the warm climate was really a bit too much for her at times.

Nadir was more tense due to the oncoming debate. Things would be revealed – hopefully for the better – and, with luck, some of their problems would be solved. At last he would learn something about Erik's past and hopefully, it would help him see a larger perspective of events.

His estate was nowhere near as majestic looking as the imperial palace, nor as pompous. It was comfortable, modest and elegant in its own way. Their horses were taken almost immediately by one of the servants and the pair walked to the entrance, only to almost run into a small boy on a wheelchair.

He bore a semblance of his mother far more than of his father, but there still were some similarities between them. the paleness of his pupils showed near-blindness, but the boy remained active and happy, especially when he heard Nadir approaching.

"Father!" Reza called when the servant who had been wheeling the chair brought him closer. Nadir ran ahead of Christine and embraced the boy tightly, with a whispered greeting.

While clearly blind, or almost blind, Reza could hear perfectly and the sound of boots was different than that of the usual footwear of the servants in the house. And, having a knack for sensing presences now, he understood that they had a guest.

"Who is with you, Father? Is it Erik?" the boy asked eagerly.

"No, Reza. Erik is still working on the palace. But he will come see you soon." Nadir said reassuringly, glancing at Christine for a moment. But she didn't really need to speak Arabic to know what they were talking about.

So, it was as she feared. She didn't anticipate the one option that seemed unthinkable. Erik had spoken of her. Or had he? No, he surely wouldn't have. But how else could the Persian had known her name and wanted to speak with her about something? Clearly, he needed some information or wanted to shed some light on things. And logically, the only link between them was that they both knew Erik. That was the only reason she could think of. Her first instinct was to turn and leave. Not only did she have no wish to discuss Erik, but she had silently agreed to put up with the charade and deny any connection to him.

But… perhaps running was the worst thing she could do. She would confirm silent suspicions and it would be very strange if she would simply disappear now, without an explanation or an apology. Besides, it would be good to find out just how much Nadir knew. And… perhaps even she could find out what had been happening, fill in the five years of blank space that lied between the past and the present.

She didn't catch that the Persian had already introduced her to Reza, who seemed to have thought her name was a bit strange. "He asked if your name has anything to do with your religion, Christianity." Nadir noted, fully breaking her train of thought.

"It does." Christine said with a slightly forced smile. Truth to be told, she was getting very sad when she looked at the boy. He couldn't have been over ten and he was already so unfortunate… it was horrible, really, how a sickness could bring a vital and joyful child to such a state. But Reza didn't seem to be bothered the least by the wheelchair.

Christine knelt next to Nadir, who made her some space in front of the wheelchair and she took the boy's hand, stroking it for a moment. Bright for his age and aware that she probably didn't speak his language, Reza pointed at her with his free hand and said her name, then pointed at himself and introduced himself this way. Christine smiled fully now.

"Reza, Christine and I would like to talk a bit." Nadir said kindly, "Have you eaten yet?"

The boy shook his head. "I told them to make a nice meal today, since you were coming home."

"Then make sure that everything is prepared as you ordered." Nadir smiled and gestured to one of the nearby servants, who quickly came to them and wheeled the chair with Reza away, presumably to the kitchen or the dining room, so that the boy could truly make sure everything was as he wanted it to be.

Christine and Nadir stood in silence for a moment, watching the others depart. "I'm very sorry, Monsieur." Christine whispered after a while, hanging her head. "I didn't know."

"You couldn't have known. And please, do call me Nadir. If you could have avoided the etiquette when it came to clothing, then you can surely avoid it in the privacy of my home." The Persian noted, changing the subject quickly. "I hope you didn't mind that I used your first name previously, Mademoiselle. I simply wanted to introduce you to Reza – he isn't that proficient in languages, thus I didn't want him to have problems pronouncing the title."

Christine shook her head. "It is alright. If I may call you Nadir, you must also have the right to use my name. I would be a bad guest if I wouldn't return the civility and I don't wish anyone to defer to me."

"Very well, then. The meals should be prepared within the hour, but I thought it would be better if we would talk a bit before eating. I confess, I am a bit tense and I don't want you to be at unease. Be assured that I simply wish to talk to you."

"If I wouldn't be able to trust the chief of police, there would be no trustworthy man in the country." Christine noted with a smile.

"You seem to have much faith in people."

"Faith is at times all that remains. Even hope can be taken away."

Nadir nodded as they proceeded to a veranda with chairs and a table with a chessboard. There, the pair decided to sit down. Not that they were in the mood to play, but the morning sun had quickly turned into a blazing inferno, thus it was very important to keep out of it as much as possible. The veranda offered shelter and privacy at the same time and one didn't get a claustrophobic feeling when sitting there.

A servant came to offer them some drinks. This part of the estate seemed to be mostly deserted. It appeared that even Persians preferred to hide from the heat at times, so there would probably be no disturbance. Christine took off the jacket she wore and put it on her lap as she sat down while Nadir dismissed the servant. Sighing slightly, he chose to speak at last.

"I won't avoid the subject any longer. I have invited you primarily for the reason that I wished a quiet and peaceful place for a conversation. I must have surprised you when I addressed you as Christine, though we have never met before." After receiving a nod in response, he continued. "I know little about what is going on, I confess, but before I answer whatever questions you may have, I wish to ask you what I didn't have the time to ask back at the palace." He paused again, as if summoning the will to say it. "Christine… do you by any chance know Erik?"

The woman almost flinched when she heard that. Fortunately, after encountering Reza, she had caught the name in the conversation, so she could prepare herself for this unlikely possibility. There was an internal conflict in her – one part of her urged that she was supposed to be in the role of a future Vicomtesse with a clear past, not a future Vicomtesse with major skeletons in her closet, especially when considering Erik's current status. The other part reminded her that she had a unique opportunity to find out things… but she didn't know just how much the Persian knew, or why he was asking this.

She frowned. "Erik? You mean that court magician the shah seems to be very fond of?" The rational part of her won. Christine shook her head. "Perhaps I have known people with that name in the past, but I am unfamiliar with that man." It wasn't a complete lie. It was the truth, actually. She didn't know Erik anymore. And she wasn't sure she wanted to know him anymore.

"Christine," Nadir sighed, "I don't know what has happened between the two of you, but I must insist that you tell me the truth. For all our sakes."

"Are you accusing me of lying to you?" Christine inquired, hoping that she appeared shocked enough. She was a terrible liar, she knew, even the girls at the conservatoire often told her that she was incapable of lies without an immediate confession of what she had done. This time, she needed to act it out properly. It was easy, she had heard. Not for her. "What reason would I have for that, pray tell?"

"I cannot know that. Unfortunately for me, I am inept when it comes to prying out things from Erik. I had hoped you would be more reasonable. The fact remains that I wouldn't have found a portrait of you among his papers if you had no connection to him." Christine felt a blush creep to her cheeks. "I heard him mention your name only once, the night of his last performance in Russia, before we set out for Persia. He sang and when everyone left, I believe I heard a whisper of your name."

Christine's gaze dropped to her boots. She had tortured him! She didn't realize it, the stupid child she was! All she had cared about was herself… how could she expect forgetting, forgiveness, even? She should have never let him go, or at least she should have gone with him! The insanity of the thought struck her. A little girl, traveling through the world with no money to spare? Erik might have been able to take care of himself, but she was too afraid of having no place to go, no nothing. She would have ended up on the street, or worse!

But still she had tortured him. The memory of her and now the foolishness of her engagement to Raoul… then again, how was she supposed to know that she would run into Erik in the strangest of places, where she would never in a million years had expected to find him!

She was guilty. Stupid, foolish, cowardly, naïve little Christine, her mind screamed at her. All this could have been prevented if she would have… would have done… something… anything… it could still be fixed! But that would mean breaking up the carefully constructed plan they had created before entering Persia. She would cause trouble for more than one person – she could make two countries enemies, if she would act rashly now.

There was no getting out of the circle of torment, certainly not while trapped in the palace. And… after all that she had done, it was blatantly obvious that Erik wouldn't even listen to her, let alone forgive her or anything like that. A portrait – what value did a portrait have? It had probably been sketched to honor a memory and now would be ripped to shreds. She had ruined everything… there would be no going back to what might have been…

But she could still save them all. The Chagnys would finish their business, Erik would forget her… and she would return to Paris and try to wipe out the singing from her mind. She would never succeed – the past five years of trying had no effect. Yet there was no other way.

"Your friend must be quite the artist, then." she whispered, "Nadir, please forget what you saw. Even if it was me, it was probably just a test of his skills, there must be dozens of other pictures there, equally well done…"

"Even if there are, none of them is stored with such care." the Persian persisted, "Christine, when I asked who the woman – you – was, he said that it was an angel." Christine winced slightly. "Please, answer me. You must know him."

She shook her head forcibly. "I don't. Not anymore." Her limited ability to lie was diminishing very quickly.

"Did you know him, then?"

"As he would say, the past is in the past." Christine said, dismissing the question. "I know nothing more than you do – I know that he is a genius in many fields, that his voice puts all the angels to shame and that he has been forced to live a terrible life due to his face, which is considered a horror by many. Of his past, I know nothing."

Nadir was about to ask another question, but Christine decided that if they would talk any further, she would probably be inept to lie anymore or at least wave off the all too accurate questions. Something told her that the Persian meant well, but it was truly not in anyone's best interest for her to reveal these things.

"I cannot give you the answers you seek." Defeated for the moment, Nadir nodded.


	18. Chapter XVIII

**Author's notes:** Sorry for the long update, I was on holiday. No time to reply to reviews in this one (sorry, I'm in a hurry), but I hope the chapter makes it up to it. The ending is a bit of a cliffhanger, though not entirely. I'll leave it up to you to wonder if he's really there. ;-)

X X X

**Chapter XVIII**

X X X X

The midday sun shone upon seemingly every inch of the estate. Even within, finding a room that wouldn't be near blindingly bright was a hard, perhaps even impossible task. The climate was one of the things Christine found annoyed her the most. It was useful at times, though – she didn't have to think about things such as the web of lies and events she had fallen into, nor the political intrigues surrounding her at all times. Trivial things got her mind off such matters.

Lunch, another ordinary part of the day, was perfectly useful for emptying her head. With all the etiquette she had to uphold, there was little to think about, with the exception of the fine foreign food. From time to time, her eyes traveled to Reza, who had no knowledge of it, just as she didn't register the glances Nadir spared her at times.

Her elusive answers, the tendency to avoid the question and the plea to stop the interrogation in the end weren't infuriating, merely slightly confusing. Each indicated another thing and these results cancelled each other out. Humorlessly, Nadir thought that if she would ever find the career of a diva too demanding, she would make an excellent lawyer – her speech was filled with empty phrases that gave no answers… like Erik's.

"How long have you been chief of police here, Nadir?" Christine suddenly asked politely. It seemed to be a natural topic to be discussed during lunchtime at a foreign host's house. Their job, their family, their views on life, politics…

"The function has been given to be a few years ago. I never asked to be made daroga of Mazenderan and I am obliged to confess that there were times when I thought I should rest far easier in my bed as a lowly secretary."

"How so?"

"It gets old. And, as you might have guessed, my job isn't particularly safe. But until someone will die and free a post more suitable to my regrettably squeamish nature, daroga of Mazenderan I remain."

Christine wrinkled her nose a bit. "That sounds terribly harsh."

"That is how this country works, regrettably." Nadir smirked very faintly. "You sound like Erik now."

Afterwards, the girl immediately fell silent, focusing more on her food than conversation. Reza had taken an interest in interrogating Christine (with the help of Nadir's translations) about her background, mostly about the country she came from. The concept of snow seemed to fascinate the boy, and it took almost a full five minute period for her to sufficiently explain what it was like when tiny bits of white substance fall from the sky and form a wonderful whiteness all around them.

He also found out about Christine's parentage and got somewhat of a lecture about how he should be fond of having at least one parent still alive. Even though there was little she could deny a child, Christine still took care not to mention her Italian relatives by name or any events surrounding them. It was kind of like shooting blindly – she didn't know how much she could reveal.

Then it came to her career as a singer, her studies at the conservatoire and possible future possibilities. The subject of music seemed to interest Reza greatly. After lunch had been eaten, the boy dragged – or would have dragged, had he been able to stand – Christine into his room to show her a very strange little invention.

It seemed to be an ingenious music box mixed with a realistic little figure of a gypsy playing the violin. Once Reza clapped loudly, it bowed, took up the instrument and began playing a brisk melody. The tune was distantly familiar to Christine, but she was certain that she had never heard it before. After the figure finished its song, it bowed again and remained motionless.

"You have to clap in order to make it play again." Reza noted, smiling when Christine clapped softly. She thought the figure deserved it and wondered what it would play now. "Louder!" Reza commanded. "Louder!"

After several attempts at forcibly loud clapping, the figure bowed with condescension, replaced the fiddle beneath its chin and began to play a different tune.

The next one was different than the first and somehow, it while it seemed clear that it was a mechanism, the violinist almost seemed to have a will of his own when it came to music and a repertoire of new songs at hand whenever one of them ended. There were variations of similar tunes, a skilled ear would notice, but never openly audible. Each song was different. Intriguing, ingenious and amusing, there could hardly be a better gift for a child than such a wonderful toy, especially when its ability to please or cheer up relied on sound rather than sight. Christine smiled.

"But why do you have to clap so hard to make it play?" she inquired after a few more songs. Surely a clockwork mechanism – she figured it would be something like that – was sensitive enough to pick up even a more gentle sound.

"You must clap with enthusiasm to satisfy an artist's insatiable vanity," said Reza severely.

Christine laughed slightly, but didn't object to that statement. Too true it was. She had met enough artists that had an ego bigger than their talent and most had a rather nasty end of their career.

"That is what Erik told me." the boy added as an afterthought, causing Christine to stop laughing. She still smiled however, when she looked at the boy. Was it self-criticism, perhaps? Coming from Erik, it wasn't surprising, but admitting vanity… quite an achievement.

"And he made this for you?" Christine inquired, already knowing the answer. When Reza nodded, she added. "How very thoughtful."

"Do you know him?" The question was almost too eager, with a sense of hunger in it. Clearly, whatever concerned the boy's idol concerned him as well. Christine wasn't sophisticated enough to see it could be an attempt to wheedle information out of her through a third person, but had enough sense not to confess anything even to a child.

She wanted to shake her head, but reminded herself that the boy was blind and wouldn't see the gesture. "I don't think so. But I knew the Angel of Music, long ago. He was the one who tutored me and helped me with my vocal training."

"Angel of Music? Is that some kind of Christian figure?"

"Not exactly." Christine's smile widened a bit, but it gained a melancholic quality. Her father's stories had always been somewhat of an obsession of hers, since she had been hearing them since she was a child. Stories of the Far North, of angels, fairies, children who saw them… and, her favorite story.

"The Angel of Music is a character my father created. Papa told me all sorts of stories when I was about your age and the story of the Angel had always been my favorite."

Now Reza was confused. "You knew a character from your father's stories?"

"No, no. I met someone who became an angel for me, my guide and guardian." Hopefully, that didn't give too much away. "He was my friend and tutor, and helped me very much with a great many things. It was I who began associating him with the Angel. Truthfully, he had no idea of the story before I told him."

"And what was the Angel's story?"

"The story was about the Angel of Music and a girl he had visited, who was called Little Lotte. I had been nicknamed that when I was little."

Christine grimaced a bit. Over the years, the nickname began to sound childish to her. She was far from little now and the name Lotte somehow didn't seem to suit her. She would have been much happier to be called differently, but after her reunion with Raoul, who remembered the story all too well, there seemed to be no escaping the little girl who heard angels sing during the night.

"Could you tell me the story?"

"Most of it is sung." She tried to be evasive, but knew it was in vain.

"But you are a singer!" Reza said, not willing to be denied. "If you remember the songs, please sing some to me… if only just a little. Please?"

Unable to resist, Christine chose to agree. "After all, you have shown me your music man." She added, in an attempt to convince herself that there was nothing wrong with these little tales and that there was no way anyone could link them with the present.

_Little Lotte let her mind wander_

_Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes?_

_Or of riddles or frocks?_

_Or of chocolates?_

_No, what I love best, Lotte said_

_is when I'm asleep in my bed_

_and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head_

_the Angel of Music sings songs in my head_

She took a deep breath. There was no Angel of Music. And if there was, he had never visited her. Cutting herself off from melancholy was crucial. Even if it would be utter denial, she simply wasn't willing to admit that she felt anything for _him_. Revenge was an odd thing, coming in many forms. She didn't feel the need for it, but assumed that he would view it as vengeance for his treatment of her after their reunion.

For a moment, she managed to convince herself that it didn't matter.

Nadir didn't bother interrupting the song with translations – he would tell Reza what she had been singing about later. Now, he was entirely focused on the singing. Before, in the gardens, her voice sounded broken, defeated, sad… nothing like the joyful, kind voice now. It was as if she was caught in a very beautiful memory, almost as if she saw this angel of hers in front of her.

The metaphors weren't enough to deceive him, however. There was only one person he knew that could be considered an angel by the quality of his voice. Putting two and two together wasn't hard, when Christine mentioned tutoring and vocal training. Even in her story, however, she never went closer to the subject on what connection they had to each other, when they met, why they parted…

The simple relationship of a teacher and student wasn't enough to explain the hostility, the avoiding and a whole lot of strange behavior.

_Father once spoke of an angel_

_I used to dream he'd appear_

_Now as I sing, I can sense him_

_And I know he's here_

_Here, in this room_

_He calls me softly_

_Somewhere inside_

_Hiding_

_Somehow I know_

_he's always with me_

_he, the unseen_

_genius_

The tune changed, a frown passing through her young face. The first word of the song seemed to have been quickly amended, after she briefly recovered from the dreamlike trance she was in. Hasty as it was, Reza didn't notice it, but it couldn't escape the attention of someone listening closely.

_Surely you must have been dreaming_

_Stories like this can't come true_

_My dear, you're talking in riddles_

_And it's not like you_

Again, the dreamy gleam returned to Christine's eyes, but she remained firmly focused on the fact that whatever she was about to sing, she had to let it pass through her mind first before opening her mouth to speak the phrase. Now Nadir understood the angel connection – Erik had called the portrait that, Christine had called her tutor that… it made sense.

The connection was voice.

Their voices, each perfect, were underlined by the same talent, innocence and pain. Both shone with beauty that came from within, though in appearance, they were counterparts. But not as ugliness and beauty – as sensuality and innocence. If the Christians were to be believed and God created duality, where each creature has a creature that belongs with it, he saw an almost too perfect match. Seraphic vocals rang through the air as Little Lotte, now grown, hailed her Angel after all the years of separation.

_Angel of Music_

_Guide and guardian_

_Grant to me your glory…_

_Angel of Music_

_Hide no longer_

_Secret and strange Angel… _

And, deep down inside his mind, Nadir could very easily imagine the sound of another voice replying – so realistically that for a moment, he wondered if he really heard it. A more familiar voice, but filled with something he could never imagine in it.

_I am your Angel… _

_Come to me, Angel of Music…_

_I am your Angel of Music…_

_Come to me, Angel of Music…_


	19. Chapter XIX

**Author's notes:** No cliffhanger this time, this solves everything. Time to bring the Fop back into the storyline and avoid all the running around in circles. This is actually an important chapter, though it takes place a bit before the last one. Anyway, the timeline isn't important. It's the story that matters! And things will heat up in the next EC encounter, I promise you!

**Mominator** – thanks! I base a lot of Reza on Kay´s Phantom. He's a nice kid. A shame he's so sick.

**Mina** – don't worry, but I'll be on vacation again from August 1st to the 7th, I'm going to Rome. Who knows, maybe I'll find Giovanni's house ! ;-)

X X X

**Chapter XIX**

X X X X

"This is outrageous!"

Philippe de Chagny inwardly rolled his eyes, since he wasn't able to do it outwardly, though he barely resisted the temptation. The Count was usually very patient with people and well behaved in almost every case, but the bickering of these Persian politicians was almost ridiculous, since it was obvious that while the well being of the nation was also considered here, it was much more of a personal dispute between two men.

For several weeks now, they had been attempting to make a deal. His job and his brother's was mostly to sit back and watch the goings-on in Persia, then report back what they had seen to the French government or whoever was currently in charge of the state. Naturally, the Persians, while they played the roles of hospitable hosts, were fully aware that they were risking their so far quite good relationship with the faraway European country, should they mistreat the ambassadors. Thus whatever the three visitors desired, they received, they were treated with utmost care and had a priority that perhaps surpassed even the diplomatic level.

Time and time again, however, during these so-called Council meetings, even the "sit back and watch" type task was proving extremely annoying. The Grand Vizier, Mirza Tarqui Khan, who seemed to be the most liberal politician of all of them, was once again giving counter-statements to the suggestions of the shah's primary advisor, as the man had been introduced to the Comte de Chagny. And the exchange of opinions was as loud as ever.

Philippe wished he could sigh. Where were the modern meetings where the chamber was not a war room? Had they returned to the medieval times, where knights drew their swords at each other for a plain verbal insult? The East progressed more slowly than the West, true, but still, he expected a bit more control from men who were supposed to be running a country with the history of more than a millennium.

At least their "negotiations" would be over within a fortnight, plus-minus a week. Then it would only be a peaceful trip back home, with the pleasing thought that they were putting all this bickering behind. He glanced over his brother, who seemed to be bored by all the shouting. But even if Raoul would get drowsy enough to fall asleep, the ringing voice of the Grand Vizier wouldn't allow him the luxury of slipping into unconsciousness.

The Vicomte had also been surprised by this type of meeting at first, but had gotten used to it eventually. It was one of the reasons he treasured his free time so. Talking to Christine was far more pleasurable than listening to what was close to a catfight in the halls of the palace. But Christine was gone, visiting a friend, she said… the daroga, he remembered, trying to think and keep track of the conversations at the same time. That would mean there was nothing to look forward to later, with the exception of peaceful silence.

The heated exchange of opinions continued, the Grand Vizier's loud voice clashing into the soft, dark replies he received from Erik. Back and forth, like a game of tennis it went and such conversations mostly ended with the Grand Vizier storming out of the chamber, as surly as ever, with his loyal band of followers following hurriedly. No one besides Khan had the guts to stand up against Erik in the open, but it was known that as his power grew, the numbers of his enemies swelled. Still it wasn't enough to wipe the ironic sneer from his face or dim the anger flashing in his eyes.

Again, it took a few minutes even when his enemy was gone for him to regain control over the situation. Nadir wasn't there today, which was a shame, since the daroga always had a way to cool his temper, if only partially. Where Nadir got the knack for doing that and how come he never got the urge to strangle the Persian after being pacified at times like a child, he really didn't know. The fact remained that they got along rather well.

"What a great way of discussing things." he heard the Viscount de Chagny mutter to his brother as they stood up. In return, his brother almost elbowed him sharply, far more aware than the boy that they weren't yet alone in the room.

"Isn't the Persian government everything you dreamed and more, Monsieur le Vicomte?" Erik wasn't entirely sure why he chose to speak with the pair, especially with the Vicomte. Undoubtedly, his preference of a conversation would have been with someone entirely different, perhaps even the Comte, who for one was more mature and tactful and also had a greater influence over the happenings in the palace, whether he knew or not.

The boy looked up at the masked man, smiling wearily. "I am not much for heated debates, Monsieur. This is almost like being in a gladiator arena. I can't imagine how you manage to withstand the pressure."

"Long-term training."

"The Grand Vizier had some points, but he sees things from a somewhat radical point of view." Philippe interrupted, receiving Erik's full attention. "While progress is crucial, you cannot change a country in a day. Supporters he may have, but noble ideas and speeches of civilized world and advanced thinking seem to remain only words when it comes to the main decisions. I think the shah is better off with your ideas, Monsieur. Hasted reformation can cause a rebellion from the masses, and that is the last thing a country needs."

"France is an obvious example of that." Erik said with a nod. "Your support is much appreciated, Monsieur le Comte. I would assume you get on well with the shah, since he seems to have a similar way of thinking."

"His majesty has been kind to us." The Comte almost seemed to smirk faintly. "After the experiences with you, I would assume he expects all of us Europeans to live up to at least half of the standard you have set. I have heard of your request to rebuild Tehran, should the shah be satisfied with the new palace he mentioned."

"That is true. Architecture is somewhat of my obsession, an art I value more than some others."

"Is there any art you haven't yet mastered, Monsieur?" Raoul asked, almost bewildered.

"My past is colorful and my life could hardly be called easy. Need forced me to learn, but I value all the beauty of this world. For me, science and art are sanctuaries. Mastering them was my goal for many years and, forgive my vanity, I have largely succeeded over quite a short period of time. Which is one of the reasons I am more influential than most around here."

He paused for a moment, observing Raoul. "And you, sir, are still willing to see some of the illusions I can create? Usually you would have to pay a fine… but you are a guest here and a nobleman, so I shall give up my pursuit of wealth for the moment and grant you a free performance some time, if you wish it."

"I would be honored, but I assume my fiancée wouldn't want to miss such a wonderful show." Raoul failed to notice the knuckles of Erik's hands whiten when he griped his cape, having been tracing the fabric for some time now. "Alas, Christine is away on a visit today, but rest assured I will tell her to keep a day free for this."

That caught his attention. "A visit? Your fiancée is so quick to make friendships? Or does she have family here, if I might inquire?"

"The former, I assume. She didn't say much, but obviously knew I had too much to deal with to accompany her. Rest assured, I doubt she will come to any harm when visiting the resident chief of police." Raoul added with a slight smile.

Underneath the mask, Erik arched an eyebrow delicately. "Chief of police? The daroga of Mazenderan? Nadir Khan?" If so, there would be hell to pay. Christine might be unaware of the purpose of such a visit, but he knew… he knew all too well.

"Indeed, I believe so." Curse that man's inquisitiveness! "She will be back in the evening. If I remember correctly, the gentleman is a friend of yours, so I would assume he is trustworthy."

"Without a doubt." Erik tried to keep the anger out of his voice, mostly succeeding. Trustworthy, naturally. Turn your back for a moment and a full-scale investigation of your background begins. If he weren't so indebted to the man… Damn him!

"Typical Mademoiselle Daaé." Philippe noted with a sigh, "I do hope you manage to tame the Prima Donna behavior a bit in time, Raoul."

"I happen to like Christine the way she is." said Raoul, almost stubbornly. "All she will be changing is her last name."

"And social rank." His brother added in a mutter. "A Vicomtesse has responsibilities far beyond those she has had up till now."

"May I inquire as to how you have met your lady, Vicomte?" Erik asked with forced politeness. There was absolutely no chance Christine would say, nor that he would ask her. Thus he went past the question of what she had been before the engagement quickly, but so far avoided any suspicions. After all, the question he asked was meaningful enough.

After a glance at his brother, who seemed to approve telling the general story to even somewhat of a stranger, Raoul took a deep breath. "We have known each other since childhood, Monsieur." Erik almost snorted. Christine had never, ever mentioned him, even when he asked her about her past. "I doubt she remembers everything, we were very young. We met when her father was still alive."

"He was a good man, that Daaé." Philippe interrupted when Raoul seemed to pause. "A shame he died. Sickness and poverty are hard to live with, of course, but it was somewhat of a blow to all of us. As children, his daughter and Raoul often spent time together."

"Yes, after I fetched her runaway scarf from the sea." Raoul said with a smile, "We became friends then and Monsieur Daaé used to tell us all sorts of stories, play for us or show us various things. Christine was already a wonderful singer back then, but when we parted, I had no idea she would go study voice. I suppose her father would have wished that. I think he wanted her to become a Prima Donna one day."

"And you got engaged based on a childhood friendship?" Erik asked skeptically.

"Not entirely. We met later, when Christine finished her studies. They were performing at the conservatoire – Il Muto, I think, the opera was called, she was playing the Countess – and I went to see it. She had already become the Prima Donna of the conservatoire, you could say, and had to escape admirers each time. We were reunited, courted for a while and, afterwards, we got engaged." he smiled, "Her father's stories were the link according to which she recognized me – we had both changed much. But I remembered the song, her favorite, about the Angel of Music."

"Angel of…?" Erik was catching up somewhat.

But Raoul waved the question off mid-sentence. "You have to ask her, sir, she remembers it word for word, I know only parts of it now. If you value arts so much, she would probably even sing something more renown and advanced for you, an opera aria perhaps. These songs are very simple, children poems, you could say."

"So that's why I constantly hear something about a Little Lotte when you two talk?" Philippe asked, jumping into the conversation.

"That was her favorite character, a girl who heard the Angel of Music, so I nicknamed her that. As I said, ask her." Raoul swapped topic then. "But enough of the past. I will tell her to come. I'm sure she wouldn't miss such a performance for anything."

For a moment, Erik simply looked at the Vicomte, like a silent predator would at its prey. Then, unsmiling, though it hardly mattered, he nodded with distinct politeness that Nadir would have easily distinguished as being touched by a light sarcasm, but it was so faint that neither of the Chagnys registered it.

After a brief goodbye, the masked man swept from the room, leaving the two aristocrats to continue discussing the political debate they had witnessed moments previously. As for him, he returned to his quarters, in desperate need to do something to occupy himself, something to focus his attention and, if possible, it should be non-lethal for anyone.

Rage flooded him for a second reason when he heard the tale of how "Little Lotte" met a boy who saved her scarf and ended up creating a strong bond of friendship between them that could have easily grown into love, as it had seemed to. At first glance, their relationship seemed a bit shallow and straightforward, but after learning this bit of important information, he knew that its roots ran deeper. Thanks to music, however, he managed to abandon all thoughts of hatred and anger, when he transformed them into notes. A violent, brutal melody emerged from the abyss of his mind and appeared to be strangely satisfying when he reread it. The Angel of Music had created another dark masterpiece.

Miles away, Nadir Khan shuddered at the manipulative edge to the voice he had imagined to reply to Little Lotte´s sweet song.


	20. Chapter XX

**Author's notes:** WOW! I didn't update for so long! Sorry – vacation. Really! Alright, all of you die-hard EC phans, this if for you. I actually wanted to add more romance here, but that would be sappy, and Erik just doesn't work that way. Don't look at me! And the changed lyrics are mine, with the exception of one bit in the middle, from "I seem to find" to "haunting me", which belongs to Thephantomaffair.

**Mina** – Sorry, no time, lots to do. Here you go!

**Moonjava** – thanks!

**Mominator** – thanks so much! The idea just kept bugging me! Okay, here's the next chapter!

X X X

**Chapter XX**

X X X X

The peaceful shimmering lights reflected from the waters were immensely calming. It was exactly that needed impulse that managed to soothe nerves and let you drift into a state of peaceful forgetting, a wonderful, fulfilling sensation. And in a frantic state of fear and panic, it was exactly what you needed.

For Christine, the interrogation in the faraway estate ended rather well. She didn't reveal anything of real importance, had a nice meal and met a very intriguing child. Reminders of Erik's constant presence, though incorporeal, the presence of his influence, stared at her from every corner, but she managed to come to terms with it. All in all, she thought she was doing well. Were it not for the minor fact that she never got the slightest chance to explain the situation – or consider if explaining things to him was a good idea – she would have been happy.

She wasn't. Not even remotely content. The daydream of the past five years had turned into an all-too-realistic nightmare. Even the separation when she had hoped for his happiness was better than the clear loathing she had witnessed on the few occasions they had met. Frankly, she avoided him now, not that it was hard. If they were going to pretend to be complete strangers, two could play such a game.

Staring at the fountain again, she smiled distantly, weakly… as if it wasn't really her. Today was the last day she would mourn her father. Today, she would end her torture. Afterwards, she would have to assume the role of a future Madame de Chagny, which didn't appeal to her very much. Nevertheless, once the game started, there was no turning back.

Her conscience berated her for promising Reza to come and sing him something later on. She should have ended things then and there. But seeing the boy, talking to him, telling him tales her father once told her awoke more within her than she would have liked. She didn't have the heart to refuse.

But she promised to herself not to sing again afterwards. Not only did it conflict with the part she was to play, but also it showed her weakness. She would give up singing, at least for a while, because even the stories of her childhood now mocked her.

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing." she whispered, but refused to sing the line. She recited it, trying not to sound pained. Once she would get it out of her mind, things would be alright. They had to be. "Her father promised her to send her the Angel of Music. Her father promised her… her father promised her…" Her eyes seemed to close on their own accord, squeezed tight.

In her mind, a song echoed, a song of mourning, of sadness, of her father. He was the only person that ever mattered more than the world to her and she had lost him and every link to him. It was time to move on, to sever ties with the past. She would sing one last song… for him, because he would wish it. He had wished her to become a diva. For him, she would sing. One last time.

_You were once my fallen angel  
You were all that mattered  
You were once a guide and guardian  
Then my world was shattered_

_Wishing you were somehow here again  
Wishing you were somehow here  
I seem to find_

_Deep in my mind  
You are still haunting me_

_Wishing I could hear your voice again  
A whisper of the fleeing night_

_Sometimes I see_

_That it could be_

_That which brings my world light_

_Lonely child now threads in darkness  
There is no emotion  
In the past, I came for guidance  
Now I cry an ocean..._

_Too many years_

_Fighting back tears  
Why can't the past just die?_

_Wishing you were somehow here again  
Knowing we must say goodbye  
Try to forgive  
Teach me to live_

_Give me the strength to try…_

_  
No more memories_

_No more silent tears_

_No more gazing back at the wasted years…_

_  
Help me say goodbye  
Please don't say goodbye..._

But the words that came out were twisted, mixed, not at all what she meant to say. She was too transfixed to notice, however, gazing at the fountain again, failing to notice the twilight and shadow. The thought of Raoul seeking her in the palace brought up no concern.

"You should not sing while crying, Mademoiselle. Your throat is choked, as are the notes." 

As if someone had struck her, Christine straightened up immediately, more than startled. A similar scene had occurred years ago and back then, death had come more swiftly than any of the participants would have liked. She wouldn't even have to turn around to identify the speaker, but she did so, deliberately slowly and cautiously. After a frightened glance at him, she swallowed the lump in her throat. No more…

"Are you here to give me your criticism, Monsieur. You are not my tutor. And for once, I am on the edge of being the one who starts shouting, so please spare me anything you want to say." She shook her head weakly. "I have no wish to speak with you."

"This time, it is inevitable, I'm afraid, Mademoiselle." Erik noted, with complete indifference to her reddened and teary eyes, at least outwardly. His attention was more focused on other things. "I have discovered that you have talked to Nadir Khan this afternoon. What did you say to him?"

Christine understood and shook her head again. "Your detective-like friend tried to interrogate me about your history, but I told him nothing… I myself know very little, but I said nothing and did as you instructed – pretended not to have met you before."

"Good. I shall have a talk with him about this little investigation of his – be assured that he shall not trouble you again. Mademoiselle." He bowed lightly and moved to turn around and leave.

"The boy – Reza – is very fond of you." That stopped him immediately.

"The child is dying, Mademoiselle. No one should treat him cruelly."

"How long before…?" she couldn't really finish that sentence.

Turning back to her, Erik straightened up almost unnaturally. "I cannot say. It's a progressive illness – I can't cure it. The stage is too far now. There is nothing that can be done about it." He paused for a moment, obviously furious at his own helplessness in the matter.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Christine asked, careful not to cause an outburst. "I saw that gypsy figure you made for him – he seems to be fond of music, when I sang…"

"It won't be necessary." he interrupted.

"No, it won't. But I would still like to do it. It's much better than spending the days locked inside this golden cage and talking to the local royalty."

"What of your precious fiancé?" There was a distinct hint of irony in that last word.

It was the moment when she considered explaining the situation to him, telling him most of what she could and reassuring him that everything was already arranged… but she chose not to. There was no idea what effect it would have… she barely knew him now… and rumors were the last thing she currently needed.

"He is not my owner, Monsieur." She said, forcing a certain amount of arrogance into her voice – she had heard Philippe use it at times, when dealing with stubborn people. "I am my own person."

"So Little Lotte has grown up suddenly?"

Christine blinked, but then remembered that she had been reciting part of the story minutes before. "Little Lotte is not Christine Daaé. Little Lotte went away with her father, with the Angel of Music." Somehow, it was pleasing to see him shift slightly. "I am Christine Daaé, and I want to help that child. Be assured that this choice comes from seeing the state of the boy. I want to help, Monsieur, and I will, whether you approve or not."

Motionless and soundless, like a dark statue, he looked at her for almost about a minute, observing this newfound determination that had appeared on her face, only adding to the effect of red, puffy eyes and swollen cheeks. The image of hope and hopelessness that he found beautiful above all else… then reality shunned the emotion away.

"Very well then. I trust your arsenal of songs for children is vast?"

"I wasn't Little Lotte for nothing, Monsieur." she noted, unsmiling still. "But surely you have more songs than I. The few bits of music I have heard you play were nothing short of amazing."

"I haven't composed in a very long time, Mademoiselle." he admitted, not without some shame in his voice. "I have neglected music for long­… time is one of the things I lack."

Her wide eyes stared at him with complete disbelief. This was probably the thing she had expected to hear the least, especially from him. He had stopped composing? He, who above anyone else deserved to be called the Angel of Music? Preposterous. Unacceptable. Under no circumstances could that be allowed to continue.

Clearly, these thoughts showed on her face. Through the darkness and the mask she couldn't see, but Erik managed a very slight and brief smile at her inner outrage. "But you seem to have songs of your own."

Christine shook her head. "I have only heard a lot of others and can rhyme decently. It doesn't require that much work to create a poem about something you feel strongly about and find a tune - steal it, I might correct myself – that fits it."

"Then we have a problem. The music I write is not meant for an audience such as Reza. I no longer write the youthful melodies you perhaps remember, Mademoiselle. If music reflects the soul, then mine is filled with darkness."

"Even darkness can be beautiful. It depends on how you view it." Raising her eyes to the sky, she looked at the stars that began to appear slowly. If there was anything she had learned from him, besides music, it was to distinguish the starless and the starlit night, two types of darkness, two different worlds.

Also looking up for a second, Erik nodded. "I see your views have changed. It's good to see that at least one childish fear had evaporated. You no longer fear the dark, it seems."

"The dark? I still fear it, Monsieur. I fear a void, emptiness… but I am not afraid of the night anymore."

Finally, at long last, she smiled. It was a teary expression, still, but she seemed calmer and no longer afraid of the embodiment of darkness – of him. She didn't really know what she was attempting to do, but talking to him, like they had once done, just talking about anything at all, forgetting the stress of the world, was somehow soothing, even more than the soft sounds of water nearby.

"The night has its own music." Erik noted, almost in a whisper. "The night is beautiful, no one can see you if it's dark around you and only you can hear its music."

"What does it sound like?"

"You must listen carefully, Mademoiselle."

It seemed that he had been somehow reminded that they were still in the depths of reality and the first song he had written after a long silence could not be sung, not there, not then, not to her. It was a song for her, of the night, of its splendor and wonders. His goal was to rid himself of the thoughts that had somehow forced his petrified heart to break free of stone and beat again… much to his dislike.

He failed.

Fortunately, the strict nature of him denied him to break down all the walls he had build around him. Those that had been destroyed during the time in Rome, with her and Giovanni, had been replaced by taller, stronger constructions, unbreakable, at least seemingly. But her singing… he had listened from almost the very first word. The first wall seemed to be crumbling down with each word until only the foundations remained. The lyrics weren't meant for mourning the dead… and if Christine would consciously realize that, she would surely have stopped singing.

He should never have spoken to her. He should have left at once. Before even the last remnants of the wall could vanish, he whirled around and stalked away from her swiftly, leaving her listening in the darkness.

Never would anyone listen to the music spawned by the magic of the darkness, the beauty of the night… and the celestial angel it was meant for.


	21. Chapter XXI

**Author's notes:** Overwhelming reviews, all of them! I decided to give you a treat and write a new chapter quickly. Beware the evil cliffhanger, however, and I don't think that the next chapter will be up tomorrow… you will have to wait.

**Deadly Serenade** – soon enough for you? There will be phluff, I guess, but not that soon… but I consider any non-EC ending blasphemy, so don't worry. ;)

**Mina** – well, I can't just have him steal her away at once, but I promise there will be more good moments between the two of them. Best fanfiction on the web? Master? Thanks ;) Much appreciated. But with a muse like Erik, can you expect any less?

**MelodysSong** – wow, long review. Alright, thanks very much for the praise, it made my day. Now, for the criticism. I reread the chapters and decided you were right. We needed to get back on track. This chapter moves faster than the three before it, more things happen, so I hope you like it. Your answers to the criticism questions are here – thanks for asking. As for the future, well, I am planning to bring them back to France… but I cannot say what happens then. All I can say is: read and review.

**Mominator** – too much phluff makes Erik seem like a sap… and he is ANYTHING but a sap. Yes, I had fun, but I didn't get to writing new chapters, as I had been planning to do. Here you go, hope you like it!

X X X

**Chapter XXI **

X X X X

The next few days passed rather quietly for everyone – with the exception of Nadir Khan, who had to endure something quite close to a shouting match as soon as he returned to the royal palace. The point of it was: he was to stop sticking his nose where it didn't belong the least. That, at least, assured the Persian that his hunch was correct, but he no longer made any attempts to pry things out from anyone… for the time being, naturally. It was only a matter of time until something would happen.

Christine soon received a note telling her the time and place of a meeting. Miraculously, it seemed that one: the singing lessons were to resume and two: they resumed right where they ended years ago. Only two things had changed – a professional indifference regime, even stricter than the one before, had been established, and they had to find a less suspicious and attention-attracting means of communication than sudden disappearances and random meetings.

After two minutes of listening to an aria from Il Muto – the last work Christine had performed before her departure from Paris and thus knew it best – Erik had created a thorough analysis of her strengths and weaknesses, range and technique, and managed to wish each conservatoire teacher an eternity in the deepest pits of hell. When it came down to helping Reza, her voice was the best tool they could work with and so far, it didn't meet the standard he had set. The idea he had in mind at first was to create another gypsy figure to accompany the violinist, but that would require too much effort. The first figure was designed not to repeat musical phrases, so finding something suitable would be too difficult. It wouldn't meet the standards of the first. Simply unacceptable.

"Stop." The command had been repeated for what seemed to be the millionth time, and Christine had gotten another complete list of her flaws in the two phrases she had managed to sing. Some things never change, she thought, barely avoiding a sigh. The critical part of these meetings were two people: Raoul and the khanum. Avoiding them both at the same time seemed almost impossible, and it was crucial that neither became suspicious.

The khanum, who never missed anything in the palace (part of the reason everyone feared her) had decided to invite Raoul, since his brother was far too busy, to join her in the harem for a meal. Partly because she wanted to know more about how things were going and how the world functioned in Europe, but mostly because she had decided that the young Vicomte wasn't at all bad looking.

It was the perfect opportunity to make an excuse and run off, so Christine did so. After all, she wasn't invited, and the warnings that the khanum was a dangerous enemy to make that Nadir had given her were far away in her mind. And why would the khanum be interested in her absence? Erik had already explained the purpose of her last visit, thus she felt no need to be worried this time.

Unfortunately, naivety was something they couldn't afford right now. Circumstances for secret meetings were never perfect.

"And what of your lady, Vicomte?" the khanum asked in the middle of their conversation. Raoul had already complimented the food and various other things, they had discussed those things, their countries, their relatives. It was the perfect time to delve into love life, the khanum decided. "I would have assumed that she wouldn't let her fiancé out of her sight for a minute, when he is to meet another woman, especially one such as yourself."

The Vicomte explained that Christine wasn't used to formalities that much yet, politely ignoring the flattery. "She had a more… free life, if you will, up till now, Madame. But I wish I could see her more often. These days, we barely talk – I have my duties and she always seems to be in a hurry."

Underneath the thick veils, the khanum raised her eyebrows. "No woman is ever too busy to ignore her man, my friend. Why must she always make haste?"

Truth to be told, Raoul had been wondering that as well. Whenever he asked, he got a swift, temporarily satisfying response and then she was off and gone for hours. "To be honest, Madame, she has seemed a bit odd ever since we came here, almost afraid. Now she seems nervous, like… really, this is absurd, but it seems like she is hiding something from me. I thought she was scared of the new environment, but she handled the journey and the opening night so well… in fact, it all began the next day." The Vicomte waved the thought off and shook his head. "Apologies, Madame, I am boring you."

"Not at all." The khanum noted with a smile. From what she had seen of the girl, she remembered mostly parts of the melody she had been singing and that Erik had only glanced at her once. Back then, it was entertainment only. Now, however, it seemed odd. When she thought about it, the girl also acted as if he were part of the wall – true, she had no idea why everyone feared him so, but nevertheless, it was… odd.

The khanum was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. vocal talent. Same country. Similar taste in music. Unnatural ignorance of each other. Those could be counted as coincidences, but… the Vicomte could yet serve a purpose grander than being nice to look at.

"Do tell me what happened that day. Together we might be able to figure something out." And Raoul did, from the moment he picked Christine up in the morning, until her hasty retreat that had been foiled by an untimely suggestion. One such escape was tolerable, naturally, but a series of coincidences was too suspicious to ignore. When it came to uncovering affairs, the khanum was extremely skilled.

Only several minutes after the Vicomte left, one of the quieter slave girls snuck away to search the palace for Christine. She was very young – a child, almost – and she had to search for very long until discovering anything that could be even remotely classified as music. Deep down bellow, in the old, unused dungeons of the summer palace, aggressive music echoed. Strangely enough, it sounded like many instruments, but that was plainly due to its perfection.

A youthful female voice was singing loudly in a funny language. The slave girl knew she had hit the jackpot. She didn't dare sneak nearer, however. The proof she got was enough, for a minute later, a more familiar voice interrupted, though it sounded somewhat angry, to her ears, even though she didn't understand any of the words.

"Wrong again. there is no feeling in your voice! Remember who your character is and feel what they feel! Put emotion into the song, otherwise you will never get better."

Without objection, the voice resumed the song, with an energy it didn't have before. The slave girl listened for a moment, but then chose to sneak away quietly. She knew what that man was capable of and truthfully, envied the woman's courage for being bold enough to stay in a dark room with him alone, several stories underneath the ground. Her life was worth more to her than the khanum´s praise.

Christine finished the song, this time, exhausted, but convinced that she had done the best she could, for the time being.

"Better." Erik noted with a nod of approval when she caught her breath. Honestly, he had no idea why he was pushing her so far when there was no need for it and the only audience she would have was going to be a child who knew about as much about opera as he knew of being loved. And that really wasn't much at all. But it was thrilling to guide her voice again, to listen to her sing and see her reach new heights each time. Those were the happy moments of pretense that the outside world didn't really exist.

Christine had by now decided that it would be a good idea to tell him the truth, once they would have the time. It wasn't an outward lie they had created – they just gave everyone the wrong impression. Or, at least, she did. Since her arrival in the company of two unmarried men would seem awkward, Raoul suggested pretending their engagement. Christine, while uncomfortable with it, since her love for her childhood sweetheart had long since turned platonic, agreed.

It seemed to be the perfect bluff that would excuse her presence and give her the freedom of movement neither of the two men would have.

Her reluctance to tell Erik came from two things: her lack of trust and her confusion. When they met after all the years of separation, she didn't know whether she could still confide such things in him, especially since he had so much influence with the shah. It could jeopardize the French efforts entirely and she wasn't entirely sure what he would do.

The confusion came from his odd behavior. She had considered them friends, once, and her crush as a foolish girl's whim. In short, the idea that Luciana had perhaps had a right to be jealous of her was alien to her. Therefore she didn't understand the reason he treated her so coolly… then again, it was the way he seemed to treat everyone, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt her slightly.

"Have you chosen an appropriate aria yet?" she asked neutrally, tiredly.

"No. perfection would require writing an aria for your song specifically."

"Why not write your own opera, if perfection is what you seek?" Christine suggested, too tired to truly joke. "Don't exhaust yourself on my account. You have enough on your shoulders without writing music."

But the idea actually seemed to have attracted his attention to the point that he hesitated while returning the violin to its case. It was Christine's, or rather, she was its keeper. Gustave Daaé´s violin was her most prized possession, though it resembled more of a memory than a musical instrument.

While brilliant when it came to the vocals, Christine had never learned to play any musical instrument to perfection. The best she could do was play the piano, but her skill wasn't that well crafted. She mainly played when she needed to learn a new song and had some trouble imagining the melody. The violin, her prized heirloom, remained untouched for a long time. She never attempted to play it, fearing that she would ruin it somehow and feeling that it would be a disgrace for a novice to play such a wonderful instrument. But hearing its sound again was pleasing, especially when the person playing would easily give even her father a run for his money.

"And what should it be about?" Erik asked, securing the instrument in its case and returning his full attention to her, "Have you thought of a plot as well."

Christine thought for a moment. Lately, they had been mostly discussing Mozart, since she had been singing the aria from Die Zauberflöte that had intrigued the khanum so, so her thoughts had returned to that author immediately. The bold idea really came from the blue.

"Don Giovanni."

Erik almost winced. _Don Juan himself could not have drawn more skirts in one afternoon. _That memory brought back a wave of disgust and rage. And she had chosen an Italian version. Juan… John… Jean… Giovanni. Variations of the same name, indeed. But he forced into his mind that Christine hadn't realized what memories she had brought back. It was true. She didn't mean to enrage him.

"Jesting, mademoiselle?" he asked, ironically, "The Vicomte doesn't mind your sarcasm?"

"It was no jest… and no insult, either."

"Have you forgotten the minor detail..." He waved a gloved hand in the general direction of his face, as if that explained everything. For most people who had seen his face, it usually did.

But Christine wasn't like most people. She decided to take her chances this time and boldly walked up to him, removing the mask as gently as she could. To his own surprise, he let her. The unhealthy obsession with her gave her too much power over him and even his own logic couldn't stop him from cherishing the moment she ran a hand down his marred cheek, showing pity despite her attempt not to.

"No, I have not. But even you had to be given a flaw by God – otherwise you would have been his mirror image." She smiled, lowering her hand. "I stand by my choice."

For a minute, they stood like that, before Erik grimaced slightly and retrieved the mask. Christine jumped slightly at the faintest physical contact, unprepared for it this time, and not at all because of the chilling cold that reached her.

"I would have to cast the Vicomte, then. It must be nice not to have people run away at the very sight of your face – any chance of me fitting the part is therefore zero. And if you are to be the leading soprano…"

"…then the fact that Raoul, who cannot sing to save his life, would ruin the cast." Christine finished, almost smiling again when she saw a hint of laughter in his eyes.

"Ah, so your fiancé is perfect only in appearance?"

Christine drew a breath. No matter what would happen, she had to do it. She hated the ironic tone… and she would start screaming out loud if she would have to lie for one more moment.

"Raoul and I are not engaged."

Had the slave girl brought the khanum this news, it would have been far more crashing for the French efforts and the khanum would have paid a fortune to hear it, see Christine brace herself for any incoming reaction, and a pair of golden eyes that froze for a moment, then widened questionably, with a wide palette of emotions.

Silence was something the Swedish girl wasn't prepared for.


	22. Chapter XXII

**Author's notes: **SORRY! I had no inspiration. But here you have it!

X X X

**Chapter XXII **

X X X X

"Raoul and I are not engaged."

It seemed very strange how five simple, ordinary words could twist the situation from one's point of view. It took but a second to comprehend the full meaning, really. Surprisingly, however, as soon as the sudden surprise rushed in, it fled twice as fast. Erik continued to simply look at the girl in front of him, almost as if she had said nothing at all.

Christine wanted to almost instinctively close her eyes, but couldn't. she just waited, anxiously, for a response, any kind of response.

"Why… are you telling me this, Mademoiselle?"

He had slipped back into the polite, mildly interested tone, but still completely indifferent to what was going on. Proof of her intentions was needed… and also proof is she had indeed said what he had heard. It was possible that he had only imagined it, she had said nothing at all, or said something different. For praying that senses weren't deceiving him, for consciously wishing to reenter her world and thus ruin her perfect future with de Chagny, he hated himself.

Christine had to turn and walk a few steps away from him. She didn't know the answer to that question. After all, it had been her intention _not_ to say anything, to remain silent, thus save the situation… she couldn't. She was far too weak to sacrifice herself for the happiness of others. If she wouldn't have told him, she would really have started screaming. There had to be a way to break free of the restrictions around them, and this seemed to be the only possible means.

She knew she was risking far more than she could probably gain… but she still had to do it.

"Because I…" she stopped for a moment, having no idea how to continue.

Actually, she had a perfectly good way of continuing, but again, deemed herself too weak to even think of saying it. Childish as it was, she had realized that what she felt was perhaps beyond the definition of a simple crush.

_Say it, you damned fool,_ her mind yelled at her. She wanted to shut the sound out desperately, because she knew it was right.

_Say you love him and be done with it!_

"Because I… I think you deserve to know…" _Fool of a girl! _

"Why the sudden change of opinion?" Erik inquired, his voice gaining an angry edge. But yet, it sounded… gleeful? But it was too close, even though he stood almost six feet from her. "Christine, look at me!" He lashed out when he got no response.

As if she were trained to obey, a pet, a marionette, Christine turned sharply, feeling as if some icy hand had gripped her throat too tightly. Her eyes were fearful, she felt herself trembling, like a child caught stealing sweets from the cupboard by an angry parent who would punish her for sure. Moving even an inch seemed to be impossible, her feet weighted a ton.

"You are a truly pitiful liar, my dear. A career in politics would not suit you after all. Why have you suddenly decided to tell me this?"

_Say you love him and be done with it!_

"I… thought I could trust you, of all people, with this… I… I don't want you to be angry with me, Erik, please don't hate me for this. It… it would seem awkward if I would come unengaged – an opera girl with no connection to the de Chagnys – I would seem like a common whore!"

Erik almost winced. Indeed, she would seem that way, or any other girl would seem to be nothing but a wench… but Christine! Christine was too pure to be even half close to being anything of the sort. "And I would never get the chance to see the world… and traveling to foreign lands is too wonderful to reject… how was I to know you would be here?"

"And if you would have known, would you have come?"

Christine sighed, almost enraged. Was that even a question? Did her affection truly seem so shallow? "Of course I would have come! For the past five years, there has not been a day when I haven't thought of you, wondered where you are!" That was music, beautiful music that could not be defined, even by him.

But then he remembered. "And what of the Vicomte? He seems to be enjoying claiming you are to be his wife, does he not?" The very thought of the boy, even holding her hand, was repulsing… like the night they arrived and they seemed so happy together.

"Raoul… we were childhood sweethearts." Christine confessed, "When I was very little, five or so… when my father was still alive…" she paused for a second, gulping, "He saved my scarf from the sea, and we became friends."

"And he calls you 'Little Lotte', your favorite character." Erik said, emphasizing the Lotte part in a singsong imitation of Raoul, which wasn't that far from accurate.

Christine actually laughed sadly. "Yes, Little Lotte was my favorite character from father's stories. But… I don't assume he told you why?" Not even waiting for a reply, she began reciting the verses.

"'Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes? Or of riddles or frocks? No, what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed. And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head." She finished dreamily. "The Angel of Music sings songs in my head.' And it's true." She added quietly after a moment's silence, smiling a bit, though sadly.

There was a moment when the scene seemed to freeze, when neither spoke and they simply looked into each other's eyes, as if searching for something. Then Christine lowered her gaze, as if ashamed of something she had said, and considered if she had enough strength left to say what her mind continued screaming at her. Looking up, she almost jumped back a foot – he was far too close and approached her more quietly than a shadow would.

He was simply observing her, still motionless. She was the image of perfection, and perfection was what he had hunted his whole life, never quite catching it. Now, however, it seemed just within reach, his angel of mercy, granting him far more than he deserved. Her lips slightly parted, she drew shallow breaths, but didn't seem to be afraid. That last final glance into her eyes was too much.

Neither had even the time to breathe when the kiss began.

X X X

Hurrying through the palace, Nadir Khan noted an unusual sight, even for the imperial palace. A young girl, probably from the harem, was hurrying out of the building from a strange direction… it almost seemed like she was coming from the dungeons… well, the old unused dungeons, since the court didn't usually keep prisoners in the royal palace, but dungeons nevertheless.

Frowning, he idly wondered what possessed her to go down there. Perhaps the khanum had once again had a strange whim and ordered her to go there… or it was simply another sadistic way of torturing her women. The later, more probably, the Persian thought. That would be just like her.

Nevertheless, it was a strange choice of torture… definitely something new. As far as he was concerned, no one, not even slaves went down there without a reason.

Five minutes later, he was descending down the first set of stairs.

Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, however. The dungeons, strangely dark compared to the rest of the palace, which was bright and full of light, seemed almost unworldly. The floors were moist, the very air seemed too cold. Empty cells gazed at him, gaping maws, but the whole set of corridors and rooms was completely lifeless, not even a rat was heard squealing in the darkness. It was the image of an ancient tomb.

Were it not for the complete silence, he wouldn't have heard anything… but he did, or at least, thought he did. It was like being on one side of a valley and hearing the distant echo of someone calling from the other end. It sounded very much like…

"_Christine, look at me!"_

Yes, that.

It sounded indeed like Christine – it was a woman's voice, pleasant, melodic and speaking in perfectly flawless French. Besides, Erik's loud confirmation of the Persian's modest hunch was more than enough. Well, he had assumed that he would find out something soon enough, since the shah had delegated him with the task of watching Erik's every move… not that Erik didn't know, of course.

To eavesdrop or not to eavesdrop? That was the question. Then he remembered the small girl, the slave, leaving the dungeons… and the terrifying thought hit him. What if the khanum… no, impossible. Erik was far too guarded and besides, Christine was clearly of no importance in the shah's mother's eyes, from what the girl had told him when she was visiting his estate. It had to be something else… or was he just panicking without any reason?

No, this had to end here. He would have to force both of them to see the seriousness of the situation – Erik was too arrogant to see it and Christine was too naïve to even think of something like that. And the first thing he needed to do was to force them to talk, both of them. of everything. If he was to help them somehow, he needed to know exactly how serious things were.

And he would do it now. He would have a better chance of persuading Erik with Christine around. Allah only knew, the man would be the death of him one day, he would either be strangled or put into the mirror torture room, or die a very painful death because of the things he knew and kept a guarded secret. Right now, however…

He continued listening. But they seemed to be in the middle of a fight, as far as he could tell, and Christine's shaking voice seemed to be trying to soothe him. Inwardly, the Persian smiled sadly. He knew no means of calming Erik down when he was enraged, but if she would be able to find it, she would deserve praise beyond praise. That would be God's greatest gift to mankind.

It was only a matter of waiting a few minutes. Miraculously, it seemed that Christine had actually succeeded in her task and calmed him somewhat. Nadir shook his head. Damn all atheists – here they had proof that Allah existed! Who else would have given someone the power to soothe a hurricane?

Both voices eventually became quieter, until… silence.

Nadir frowned. What had happened? Hopefully, neither would suddenly burst out of the door and find him there. Erik would kill him for that. he had by now figured out in which room they probably were. They had chosen most likely the deepest, most forgotten room of the dungeons, which was the largest of all – a true throne room in the underground realm. When he thought of it, it probably had great acoustics… since the voices resonated so well.

_I have neglected music for far too long… _

The Angel of Music. Now there was a thought.

But he couldn't wait any longer. For all he knew, the khanum herself could be on her way, disgusted as she might be by the filthy dungeons. And if she would find them _together_… Nadir preferred not to think of the consequences. It was enough to say that the results would probably affect far more than any of them could imagine.

Knocking seemed truly ridiculous.

The Persian hastily nearly burst into the room, clearly trying to give the impression he had just arrived. Then, however, he froze. Naturally, he had done a great racket when opening the door, but it took only a split second.

And it took more than a second for the pair to each take a hasty step back from each other, Christine looking down both shamefully and fearfully, Erik's eyes burning when he glanced at Nadir.

He had seen enough. Explanations were truly unnecessary.

X X X

**AN:** There you have it! EC phluff… of some sorts. Anyway, I gave you guys a kiss. Juicy descriptions in the next chapter! Kudos!


	23. Chapter XXIII

**Author's notes:** This took way too long… sorry about that. I almost didn't add the first few paragraphs of the story, since I don't like writing too romantic stuff, but I promised you some good details, thus the first bit was born – written as the last part of the chapter, but it ended up as the beginning. So, here you go. P.S. Beware cliffhanger. You can't say you haven't been expecting that this might happen. (Read and you'll understand!)

**Mina** – heh, thanks for the support. Well, I didn't want Erik Punjabing Nadir yet, but I hope you find this a believable reaction. Here is the next chapter.

**Nabira**– thank you! Well, Meant To Be was something I had to get out of my system… but this is a joy to write! Thanks for reading, here is another chapter.

**Mominator** – well, I have a very special thing planned for Paris… you'll see later on. I'm wondering whether to make Christine leave now or go through the events in Kay… there's a lot to write about yet…

**Deadly Serenade**– merci, here you go!

**AngelOfMusic387** – well, wait and see! Here you go!

**Enrinye**** –** success!

X X X

**Chapter XXIII **

X X X X

Bliss. That was probably the word to describe it. The world was gone. Reality was nothing. The only thing that mattered was feeling her lips against his. He had only retrieved the mask, not replaced it, as he would have usually instinctively done. But Christine didn't scream in fear, didn't show any repulsion… it was a dream.

Her skin was softer than the finest silk, perfect in every aspect. A stray strand of hair brushed against his marred face and he felt the need to feel more of her. Timidly, he moved his hand through the rich curls of her hair, immediately pulling her closer with the other that had slithered its way around her petite waist.

Christine didn't see or hear. It wasn't important. All that mattered was to feel… and she was surprised her heart hadn't exploded from the shock and the strange sensation passing through her entire body. Her knees seemed to be giving in, melting like ice on a hot sunny day, but she had never felt more secure.

The only thought that managed to penetrate the wonderful absence of thinking in her mind was that this might just be a pleasant dream… but if it was, it was a good dream. If she could only remain there, forever… she wasn't keen to wake up.

The wake-up call, however, had been far too abrupt. It took them too long to untangle themselves from each other, far too long to conceal anything, since neither seemed to be all that willing to let go.

_Daroga, you are a dead man._

That was the message Nadir could quite easily read in Erik's eyes. Not that it was unexpected, after what he had seen seconds previously. The reaction wasn't unexpected… it was the action that was utterly unpredicted by the Persian. He could only stand there, still trying to absorb the information. It confirmed his theories, true, but it was still a bit too much information for him to accept that easily.

Once he got past that, however, the thought of just how much trouble this sudden revelation was going to cause came exceptionally quickly.

"I… I should go." Christine said very quietly, still studying the ground rather than looking up and tried to move past Nadir and get away from there, but the Persian blocked her path effectively.

"I apologize, Mademoiselle, but I can't let you go yet. You should really consider explaining your situation to me now, both of you." he added, looking at Erik, who was still motionless and silent, but if looks would kill, not even ashes would be left of the daroga.

"I found you only by accident… but that slave girl who is currently running to tell the khanum was probably searching for you."

At once, Erik blinked and almost winced, as if struck. Even Christine blanched, if that was even possible, and looked at Nadir fearfully. She didn't know of the full extent of the danger, but easily gathered that it wasn't a good thing.

"When… when did you see her?"

"About ten minutes ago." Nadir said, "And she seemed to be in a hurry. She probably didn't see you, but heard you. What were you doing here, before…?" he trailed off.

A faint amount of color returned to Christine's cheeks – Nadir assumed she blushed with embarrassment, but it was Erik who answered. "The Mademoiselle has been rather pigheaded when it comes to cheering up your son and to restore a pretty much good relationship from years ago, I offered to help her practice her vocals once again."

"I shouldn't have tried a loud song." Christine said, still pink in the face. "Singing "vivo vivace" was bound to attract attention."

The Persian shook his head. "No… that girl wouldn't have heard you if she wouldn't have gone down here on purpose. Your voice doesn't carry that far – the walls are thick, and we are deep under the palace. She was searching, not just passing by."

"Why would that damned woman send a slave searching? I had made it clear that I have no time to tend to her whims today – I have work to do, both this and on the palace concepts." Erik almost growled.

Again, Christine turned pale. She remembered about an invitation… "Raoul." she whispered.

Both men turned to her sharply, with equally quizzical gazes.

"Raoul… he said something about an invitation to lunch…" she raised her head fearfully, "He must have noticed my absence… and, let's face it, two disappearances in the palace are probably quite uncommon." She saw them exchange a look – evidently, that was untrue, but the disappearances of them in particular were suspicious.

"I want to help you, both." The daroga noted, glaring somewhat at Erik, "but I can't do that if you keep pretending everything's alright. Neither of you is that good a liar. You have to tell me everything."

"Your curiosity will one day be the end of you, daroga." Erik's eyes narrowed underneath the mask. "I see no reason for telling you anything."

"Erik," Christine breathed soothingly, "perhaps it would be better if…"

"No." was the immediate reply, "You don't know how things go in this country, my dear, and it is better that you don't. Trust no one, reveal nothing."

"I thought you were friends?"

She could sense a faint smirk form on his lips, but he said nothing. Even Nadir had to smile faintly. "Indeed, but he's the one with the Punjab lasso, Mademoiselle."

Christine frowned, confused, but thought it would be stupid to ask what a Punjab lasso was for. She decided she rather didn't want to know that. "Then I'll be the one to tell you, I should be safer from his anger than you." she noted, with a slight smile when Erik gave her an amused look.

Knowing full well that she knew only what she had seen, she began explaining things. The story was mostly accurate, missing only the detail of how Luciana died, because she was fully aware that Erik wouldn't appreciate anyone else knowing it, or her retelling the story. Years might have passed, but it was not a pleasant memory even for her, thus she assumed it would do no one good if she would be the one to bring it up.

Of their time of separation, she spoke only briefly. Neither of her listeners interrupted her, but she could sense that even Erik was genuinely interested in what she had been doing for those five years. When she came to the topic of Raoul, however, she didn't notice him clench his fists, if only slightly.

Then she retold the events of which even Nadir knew, from her perspective – the arrival to Persia, the reunion, and everything that had happened ever since then. Neither broke her narrative until the end, and a moment's silence followed when she finished her speech.

"If the khanum finds out about this, it will cause much trouble for all of us." Nadir noted after a minute. "Not to mention the fact that you are supposed to be engaged, Mademoiselle… this could end badly."

"What do you propose, then?" Christine asked, slightly breathlessly.

The Persian glanced from one to the other, "I suggest you get out of this country, return to France, and get married as soon as possible."

Erik snorted and paced around a bit. "Easy for you to say, daroga." He seemed to purposely ignore the last part of the suggestion. "The new palace won't just build itself – and I have no intention of leaving it for those amateurs to mess up."

"You would risk your life for a bit of masonry? You would risk _her _life for that?"

But Christine raised a hand to silence him – she knew that provoking Erik when he was frustrated counted as a bad idea. "We can't rush things. We can explain this somehow, say that we… we…" she thought for a moment, and came to a solution, "that we were preparing a surprise for the court – that I wanted to surprise them by performing something and asked you for help." It wasn't that far-fetched, for an excuse.

"You would have to actually perform something for them if they are to swallow that bait." Erik noted; his eyes fixed on Christine now. "And something grander than that aria you sang for the khanum."

"Maybe you could write something, Erik – you said you have neglected your music for long." Nadir suggested, "It would also explain why you were together here."

It was almost a silent agreement and they accepted it quickly. Christine left almost immediately afterwards, to return to her quarters as quickly as possible.

"Have you now satisfied your need to investigate my past, daroga?" Erik asked once she was gone.

Now Nadir really smiled, slightly mischievously. "For today."

X X X

Christine was reading when Raoul returned, about two hours later. He seemed to really brighten up when he saw her sitting in a comfortable chair in her room, after he was allowed to enter.

"You're back, Christine!" beaming, he sat down on a chair opposing hers. "I've just returned from the harem – I told you about how the khanum had been so kind to invite me, haven't I?" after she nodded, he continued, "I'm glad you're back. These sudden disappearances you seem to have a habit of making leave me worried."

"There is no need to fear anything, dear Raoul." Christine said with a soothing smile.

"Still, can't you tell me where you go all the time?"

Suppressing a cringe, Christine remembered what they had agreed to do. "That is a secret. And a surprise, I might add. Perhaps you will find out soon enough."

Though looking somewhat suspicious and disappointed, the Vicomte de Chagny smiled again. "Very well, Christine. I came to escort you to dinner, but I wanted to talk a bit before we go." Now, he seemed to be suppressing nervousness and an even brighter smile at the same time.

Christine frowned. It was not common for Raoul to act like this. She lowered her book, carefully marked her page and put it on the nearest table. Then, moving slightly forward on her chair, she spared him a quizzical glance. "What about?"

"You know that we will be leaving in a few weeks and returning to Paris… I wouldn't like to end our friendship once we return, you know, not after all the years of separation and all that. I'd like to keep in touch with you, perhaps support your career, if you would allow."

"I'd like to remain friends as well." Christine noted, finally smiling. But if that was all he wanted to tell her, he was being pretty ceremonious about it. She had a hunch that it wasn't all he meant to say.

And she was right.

Raoul, still smiling, seemed to be somewhat relieved that she felt the same. "I'm very happy, Christine. But I… wanted to ask something else. I know all this was just pretense, a game, but… I care for you, Little Lotte."

"As a friend." Christine added.

"Yes… but more than that as well."

The Swedish girl froze for a moment. If this would go in the direction she thought it would go, things would get even more complicated than they already were. And she knew just what she would have to say and do… even though she really, really didn't want to hurt her best friend like that right after their happy reunion after so many years.

Nevertheless, she knew it would be necessary to clear things out. Even more so when he left his chair, dropped to one knee in front of her and produced a wonderful ring in the shape of a sparkling flower – the one last piece of jewelry her set was still missing. Exquisite diamonds glittered at her, but she found them eerie, like the gleam of a guillotine prepared to chop her head off.

"Christine Daaé, will you marry me?"

The executioners – fate, destiny – knew no mercy.


	24. Chapter XXIV

**Author's notes:** All right folks, continuation of the last chapter (At long last). Anyhow, I had to correct Chapter 15 – Aida was premiered in the 1870s, thus wasn't written yet during the timeline of this story, unfortunately. I wanted to put it here… it would have been perfect. Anyhow, I'll have to add it later. In case you haven't figured it out, I adore Aida. The bad thing is that very few of the famous operas had been written in the 1840s, so I had to choose the second of my two personal favorite operas – and no, I am not telling which one… yet.

Chocolate for those who guess from this chapter which opera it's going to be and what characters Christine and Erik are going to sing!

**Mominator **– She gets the ring either way, so her jewelry set is now complete:P Yes, Paris will happen! Read on!

**Enrinye** – with Erik as my torture tutor, how can I do anything wrong? ;) Anyway, I know it was pretty obvious that Raoul was drooling because of Christine, but he is Le Fop, so I had to do it. Yes, I try to keep Erik IC. Here's more!

**Mina **– you meant GIRLISH good looks, my dear. ;) Anyhow, Christine luveeeeeeees Erik, so there is no chance this is gonna be RC.

**Nabira **– I like Patrick!Raoul and Leroux!Raoul, to some extent. Anyway, I loved the line myself, so it's nice to see someone who shares the same thoughts. Here is more!

**MelodysSong **– hmm… well, she could, but she really can't. it would be too… crazy? I don't know. Well, I dislike mushy cliché fluffy love scenes, but I liked this kiss. It was actually the first kissing scene I have ever written! Raoul Punjabbed? Well, maybe later… read on!

X X X

**Chapter XXIV**

X X X X

Christine was frozen on the spot. Her mind was frantically trying to find a reason why she should refuse the proposal without looking ungrateful or something of the sort. She had been expecting something like this to happen sooner or later, but preferred to hope that perhaps her fears were unfounded. It didn't take her long to learn to be able to turn a blind eye to the warning signs – in truth, she had scarcely seen any, particularly since her reunion with Erik. Understandable, naturally, since she had way more important matters to deal with.

This open marriage proposal and declaration of love to boot wasn't at all desirable. She had outlined in her mind the difference between a fake engagement and a real one, and the difference was clear. The fake engagement was only a game, one she would play with her childhood friend, like they had pretended in the attic all those years ago. It was only make-believe. It wasn't real. She knew it wasn't.

But this was.

Her mouth fell slightly open, she tried to speak. But nothing she could think of would explain why she wanted to outright refuse this chance any girl in her position only dreamed of. Not her. What to say? That she didn't love him? Why not grab a knife and stab him through the heart while she was at it! But… she couldn't give him hope either. If she said she would think about it, the poor boy would have hope that she would accept in time.

Twice she tried to speak, but no sound came out. Raoul continued to look at her face, smiling, thinking she was speechless because she was overjoyed. He noticed her shock and misinterpreted it as anxiety whether or not to answer. Standing up, he took her hand, still smiling kindly.

"It's alright, Little Lotte. You need not answer right now. I waited ten years for this moment – a few more days of waiting are something I can bear. Please wear this, however." Taking her hand, he slipped the glorious ring on her finger gently, admiring the effect. The diamonds really went very well with her skin. "It'll strengthen the effect of pretence… for now."

"R-Raoul," Christine finally managed to speak, looking at him fearfully. She had good reason to fear wearing the jewelry. Another reason to be afraid was his absolute confidence that she would say yes. "I-I don't think I should wear it now…"

"Then you can attach it to the chain of your crucifix, if you don't want to wear it on your finger." he suggested, "And put it on your finger after your answer. That is… if you accept, Christine." He added, with the slightest of blushes.

Taking the ring off her ringer Christine twirled it nervously in her hand. She bit her lip after he smiled and turned to walk away. She couldn't do this. It would not be pretending – it would be lying to him. She shut her eyes, as if afraid of his reaction, and before his hand reached the doorknob, quickly took a deep breath.

"Raoul, I don't wish to marry you."

X X X

"And what purpose did this surprise of yours have, my friend?" the shah inquired obnoxiously.

Erik smiled ironically beneath the mask. Again, he was facing someone who spoke the khanum´s words as if he had learned them by heart and was suppose to recite them. for that, even Erik had to give him credit. It was common knowledge that it was the khanum who ruled the country through her son, and she was a ruthless leader.

Christine's idea of a lie proved miraculously good. The girl had never been able to lie to anyone, but this was actually a very good cover-up for both of them. the only thing that could backfire at them was that they would be asked to do such a performance regularly… or, at least, he would.

For once, however, his marred face proved useless. Mentally, he smiled bitterly. Indeed, it had been very useful for this act that he lacked physical beauty. Naturally, to the eyes of an outsider – such as the shah or the Vicomte – it would seem unthinkable that a beauty like Christine would even think of touching him, let alone having an affair with him.

"I am asked regularly to… entertain the khanum, and missing a chance to work with someone who is vocally trained and shares an interest in music has been denied to me thus far. It had been the Mademoiselle's idea to rehearse a piece, though the details had been decided later." Erik explained calmly, without any sign of an outward expression.

The shah nodded very slightly, unable to detect any trace of… anything. It was one of the things that irritated and fascinated him about Erik – you could hardly ever find out what he was thinking, if he chose to maintain an expression of stone. Nearly everyone else was too intimidated by the shah to even dare contradict him, but Erik didn't belong in that group of people, being the sole member of the group that ignored all court formalities, traditions and pleasantries.

"Very well. It is unfortunate, then, that a gift such as this was detected prematurely…" but he showed no sign of blaming his mother for this, "Well, since the secret is out, I suppose you won't mind me asking what was the aria Miss Daaé was supposed to be singing?"

Erik thought different, naturally, but didn't voice his opinion of the matter. "My primary concern was to decide whether or nor the Mademoiselle had the range and skill to sing a more difficult part, and if she would be able to obey commands. Once a Prima Donna gets on stage more than once, her ego usually inflates very quickly. I am pleased to say, however, that it isn't the case with her."

For a moment ignoring the fact that he didn't get a straight answer, the shah debated with himself whether or not to allow this. Clearly, having a beautiful and – to him – exotic woman perform for him was a tempting prospect and it would be a nice change, but it was questionable whether the Viscomte and his brother would allow it and, in general, he thought it might annoy his mother that Erik would be even less available.

She was throwing tantrums already because he was too busy with the new royal palace, and having her amusement limited even more would surely infuriate her. The fact that it could also arouse the khanum´s jealousy that Erik would be spending time with a much younger woman that might be more to his liking was the one thing the shah didn't even think of.

As Nadir had guessed, he was one of the only two people whom the rumors had never reached – the rumors that the khanum would have even invited Erik to her bed, had she dared to take the risks involved. No one would dare to carry such a tale to the shah, who believed, like all good Moslems, that heaven lay beneath his mother's feet.

The other person was Erik.

"Will she be able and willing to sing, then?" the shah inquired.

"Yes." Erik said, with a curt nod. "Yes, she will be able to sing it. After some training, of course. It's true, her voice is good. She knows, though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn. Her pride isn't oversized yet, and her voice is young, so there are chances of major improvement… if we'd have your approval for continuing the training, of course."

"Yes, yes." the shah smiled, "I hear my mother has already heard the girl sing, and was impressed – besides, I would like to learn more of the European culture, whether we are to follow my brother-in-law's path," Erik gritted his teeth mildly at the mention of the Grand Vizier, "or decide to contradict him. Either way, Persia is a civilized country, and should be represented that way."

Nodding briefly instead of the low bow any other servant would have been required to have done, Erik turned on his heel and briskly walked out of the audience chamber, only to be joined by Nadir immediately. The daroga had been waiting for the "interrogation" to end, slightly anxiously. While he was certain that the shah would take the bait, his mind was still filled with visions of the khanum turning green with jealousy and her ways of jeopardizing the French ambassadors´ efforts, the good relationships between the delegates and the natives, and, most importantly, the secrecy of the recently renewed relationship of Christine and Erik.

"No need to look so crestfallen, daroga." Erik noted, almost cheerfully, as they set down the corridor. "The shah has approved further rehearsing with "la diva", and everything turned out even better than I expected."

"What of the khanum?"

"What of her?" Erik asked, mild anger appearing on his face at the mention of her.

Nadir almost sighed. "You know better than most how that woman will do anything to get what she wants. What do you think she will do when she finds out that you will have even less time for her?"

"She will have to comply."

"Erik, do you remember when she was jealous of "the pile of stone and mortar"? She forbade you from coming there until you created more ways to amuse her." The Persian reminded him, indicating to the times when the palace required more and more of Erik's time.

"That was different. Even she cannot do anything against the shah's permission… unless she wishes to fight him." A hint of glee reached his voice. "And she wouldn't want to risk that. you can only pull a puppet's strings so far before they break… and then the puppet is free."

Recognizing defeat, the corners of Nadir's mouth rose a bit into a very small smile. "Alright then, you win this round." He then changed the topic. "And what will you be teaching her?"

Underneath the mask, Erik frowned. He figured that one aria wouldn't be quite enough for the court once they would hear Christine's divine voice, it wouldn't sate their need for seeing a glimpse of heaven. Finding an opera that would do her voice justice was crucial, an opera with an acceptable plot, and possibly with the main singer being a soprano. Christine would probably be able to sing a mezzo-soprano part as well, but that would be too unnatural for her and it wouldn't show the full extent of her talent, possibly even hurt her voice.

When he combined all of these conditions, he got a solution easily, and chose an opera that would fit. She had sung the Queen of the Night more than decently, but he didn't want to repeat that, just in cast the khanum would brag about a repeated performance and lack of imagination, or, what would truly be infuriating, skill. It didn't matter, however – what he had in mind was written in Italian and had a very different style, so there was no chance that even the khanum would whine that it was the same as before.

"I have one opera in mind… an opera buffo, amusing enough to entertain them, difficult enough to inspire awe. And I suppose Christine will be rather pleased that I accepted her idea."

Nadir frowned. "What idea?"

"You will see."

"Why do I get the feeling that I won't like this?"

A slight chuckle was the first reply he got. "Perhaps you are getting paranoid, daroga, seeing schemes where there are none. I would say that other than the plot of the opera, there are no plots around, at least not for my part."

"Very well, then – why do I get the feeling Christine won't like this?" Nadir quickly amended.

"Why wouldn't she? The part I have chosen for her is a wonderful lyrical soprano that has mourns, is passionate, strong, but doubtful… a good part for her, I would say. And it is sufficiently difficult to present a challenge for her."

"You aren't going to tell me, are you?" the Persian asked, frowning.

"No." replied Erik bluntly, "The only complication I see is that I might have to sing with her – some of the arias are duets. I won't be able to play… and singing a capella isn't what I had in mind. I doubt there is a single man in this country who knows how to properly hold the violin, let alone play it."

"And how do you intend to solve this problem?"

"Enough with the interrogation already, daroga! You shall see when the time comes!"


	25. Chapter XXV

**Author's notes:** Phew! Wish me luck, people... I might be singing Christine this Tuesday, if my vocal coach decides I'm ready for it – she said I'd be doing PotO soon, if I keep up. I'm singing With One Look from Sunset Boulevard, but I might get a new song to learn. And, less pleasant, I have major exams on Wednesday and Thursday... anyway, this chapter turned out phluffier than I thought it would, but who cares? I had to put it somewhere.

Oh, and the song When I Come To You belongs to Jason Kolman and JoAnna McCormick – they did an awesome job of singing it! Ignore the "chorus" bit… it's a metaphor in this phic, but in the song, it has that exact meaning. I didn't want to change the song at all, it's too wonderful! It's just a part of it, I might be using more later on. Those of you from PhantomFans. net know who I'm talking about! The song is sung to the melody of Angel of Music:

http/www.phantomfans. net/board/ index.php?showtopic14489&st0

Download it there! But beware, I put spaces into the link so that it would show here at all, so you have to delete those! After "fans." and after "board/"

**Enrinye**– you know which one it it, Z... anyway, it's answered here!

**Mominator124** – no, no, no Raoul. It's not good for an aristocrat to sing. Too... well, it just isn't done. But I have an alternative ready! Here you go!

**Nabira**– here it is, here you have your answers!

X X X

**Chapter XXV**

X X X X

It was supposed to be the most glorious moment in the life of Raoul de Chagny. The moment he had been praying for ever since he had seen his childhood sweetheart again on the stage in Paris… only that she wasn't a child any more. She was a young woman now, and as he had been sure years ago, he was sure now that he did not wish to marry another woman.

On that impulse, he had invited her to come with him and Philippe to Persia. From the very beginning, he had known that he would pose the question one day, for he was completely ensnared by her beauty, her kindness, her voice… there was no more perfect angel in the world than her.

They had been extremely close years ago, childhood sweethearts as they were, but they weren't from the same social class, and fate had parted them soon after. Now, after this reunion, they had discovered that the friendship remained the same. Perhaps Raoul simply misunderstood Christine's friendship for more, perhaps he thought that them being friends from long ago was an ideal beginning for a romance… but this refusal…

It was simple, plain, and direct. She said it. A single no was enough to destroy the dream and shatter one possible future. Still, Raoul didn't want to listen. He heard… but he didn't want to listen.

Turning slowly, the Vicomte´s eyes once again saw Christine, and surprise rushed through him. She was as pale as snow, her normally warm eyes wide with fear, for some reason. Her hands clutched each other to stop the trembling. When she opened her mouth, no sound came out at first, but then, her voice was coolly calm, very different from her usual bright tones.

"My answer is no, Raoul."

The Vicomte stood in front of the doorway, his face now strangely blank. He didn't know what Christine was afraid of, or why she was refusing in the first place. A thousand words he knew he would never say hung between them and then, his confused emotions came out in one syllable.

"Why?"

Christine shut her eyes for a moment and seemed to swallow a lump in her throat. She could never explain why she was refusing… not fully. Insane as her refusal might seem, it was the only option she had. She could never marry Raoul. She loved him, she really did, as a brother, as a friend, as someone she could rely upon. But not as a man, not as a husband. Comfort… not love… that would be their doom.

"Raoul… please, imagine for a moment, that I cannot sing, that my voice sounds worse than the croak of the most repulsive toad… would you still love me?" she inquired, an apologetic expression in her eyes.

But Raoul couldn't imagine Christine's voice as anything less than crystal-clear, he could never think that her golden throat would emit a sound that sounded repulsive. And he could even less understand why he was asked this question. From his look of confusion, Christine gathered that he didn't understand.

"You don't understand, do you? Raoul… if I hadn't played the lead role that night in Paris… if I were an ordinary chorus girl, or if my part was silent… do you think you would have even noticed me?"

"Of course I would have!" the Vicomte said immediately, "I have known you for years, Christine – I would recognize your lovely face anywhere!"

Christine smiled mournfully. "Now do you understand? You speak of my face, my voice, as something natural. If I had neither, you wouldn't even see me – I would be part of the wall, someone you would never see. For I have seen you before that gala, Raoul." she admitted, "When I fled from the crowds after my performance as Elisa in Hannibal, I was dressed as a street urchin, and I passed your carriage near the Rue de Rivoli. You were standing there, talking with some bureaucrats. I passed you… you didn't even give me a second glance, and you looked me in the face for a moment."

The worst part was, Raoul seemed to remember a surprisingly pale person passing them, but he dismissed the sight as a starving boy who was hurrying home after a hard day's work.

"You remember the Little Lotte you used to play with at the house by the sea, Raoul… and she is gone." Christine finished, hoping dearly that she had told him enough and wouldn't need to reveal more.

"But… why did you accept my invitation to come here, then?" it seemed that he was playing his last card with this question.

"Because I love you, Raoul." Christine said, "I love you as my friend, my brother. Perhaps, once, we were closer than that, but childhood romances rarely last. We have both moved on, and you know it."

Silent for a moment, Raoul stood motionless as he absorbed this new information with difficulty. Eventually, he managed to regain his voice. "That place in your heart is already taken, isn't it?" he asked quietly, studying her face carefully.

Christine lowered her gaze, almost as if in shame, but it showed her reluctance to even answer that particular question. "Perhaps." she finally said laconically.

Gathering the remnants of his willpower, Raoul straightened up, hiding his sorrow to the best of his ability. "I hope this man is worthy of your affection, Christine." With those words, he turned away from her and moved for the door, opened it, and stepped outside.

"The Angel of Music is more than worthy of it." He heard her whisper before he closed the door.

X X X

Now that all permission was secured, Erik found yet another advantage of this upcoming performance – he was free to visit Christine in her rooms whenever occasion required it, and they wouldn't have to return to the dungeons for lessons, unless entirely necessary.

After finally completely dismissing the persistent questions Nadir kept posing, he was free to do as he wished, and his main priority was to inform Christine of the success of their little scheme and decide when they would begin preparing the performance. He had chosen a part for her already, which would suit her quite well, but he didn't know whether or not she had performed the opera before.

Knocking softly on her door, he entered after he heard no sound from the room that would prevent him from doing so, and he found Christine sitting in one of the chairs, a book in her hand. She seemed too lost in thought to notice the knocking, but now, blasted to reality from her dreamworld, she raised her head in surprise, a small gasp lost in her throat, but she relaxed almost at once when she saw who it was.

Despite the warm colors she was dressed in – green with gold embroidery – despite her slight smile, Erik noticed immediately that she seemed rather troubled or distraught by something. She was as pale as ever and perhaps a bit too jumpy. For the moment, he restrained himself from asking, allowing her the courtesy of informing him herself.

"Apologies for startling you, my dear." he said gently, "I´ve come to inform you that all went according to plan. We have permission to continue "rehearsing" and there is no time limit. I´ve also chosen you an opera and a part in it, but I need to know if you are familiar with it."

Christine marked her page in the book, closed it and put it on her vanity table, nodding. "What opera is it?"

"You gave me the idea. You wanted Don Giovanni… so I chose Don Giovanni."

Her slight frown vanishing when she remembered mentioning that earlier, Christine asked: "Ah, Mozart?" A nod was enough of a confirmation for her. "I do like that one very much." she smiled, "It's amusing, and the ending is fitting."

"It depends on your point of view." Erik noted quietly, but didn't bother explaining, his eyes still fixed on her face.

It was then that Christine caught the concern in the two golden orbs and the smile slid off her face for a moment. She was silent and then answered the unspoken question. "Raoul proposed to me."

Like a foreboding statue, Erik seemed to be carved of stone, his eyes devoid of warmth at the mention of the Vicomte de Chagny and a marriage proposal in the same sentence. "I see… am I to be congratulating the future Vicomtesse de Chagny?" he asked, though it seemed more like an angry hiss.

Christine immediately saw the warning signs and shook her head fervently. "Not at all, no. I refused. I have no wish to become la Vicomtesse de Chagny."

The ominous sight in front of her didn't morph into anything less foreboding, but surprise darted through Erik's eyes momentarily. Surprise… and more.

"Why would you refuse such a good offer, Christine?" he asked, almost in a whisper, "The boy is rich, young, handsome…" he spat the last word with distaste, "he can provide you a wonderful life with a title… you would never need to worry about anything than your _dear husband._"

"Why do you show only spite, Erik?" Christine whispered, "What must I do to make you realize what Raoul understood today – that he isn't who I want to marry!" she cut herself off then, with a quiet gasp, surprised that she would even dare say something like that out loud. It was far too… definite, concrete…

Looking down, she missed the glitter of hope and swirl of expectation that passed through Erik's eyes, making them seem like two hurricanes of molten gold. "And who do you want to marry?"

His only answer was silence.

"Christine…­ why do you tremble?"

_When I come to you  
Don't be frightened  
Child I am harmless_

_I only wish to teach you,  
guide you  
unlock your vast potential_

Christine looked up, blinking back tears, as Erik began to sing to the melody she herself had sung for him years ago to stop him from leaving forever, astonished that he still remembered it, amazed that anyone could sing with such gentleness.

_Your Father once spoke  
of an angel...  
One in whom music resides_

With uncanny grace, slowly, Erik approached her, until at last, he was kneeling next to her.

_Christine can you feel your angel  
standing by your side?_

_When I come to you  
Do not panic  
I am here to serve you ..._

She ceased blinking back tears, for the first time, letting them fall freely, as she sang with him.

_Safe under my wing / Safe under wing  
close your eyes now / I close my eyes now)  
open your mind your soul / Open my mind, my soul_

_Christine, you are still a child / I want to learn  
but as I've watched you mature / My angel, my friend  
the thought of you buried in chorus  
is one I abhor / I can give you more_

Christine's throat was as choked as it had never been. She couldn't continue, but a teary smile appeared on her face as Erik knelt in front of her, singing with more force, as if to convince her that it was all true.

_I am your angel  
I shall guide you!  
Bring you to your glory!_

_Your voice is so precious  
Child when you sing  
All angels weep softly!_

Openly crying now, Christine almost launched herself at him from the chair she was sitting on, resulting in a tight embrace a few seconds later. It was almost impossible to tell whose hands were whose; they were clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it. And even Erik, who had not cried for years, felt warm tears slide down his face behind his mask.

"I love you, Erik." Christine breathed, her voice slightly choked and muffed, but still audible. "I have never loved anyone but you, my Angel."

The possessive embrace tightened. "Christine… God shall curse me for stealing his fairest angel… and I shan´t regret it… I love you and adore you and won't ever, ever, leave you."


	26. Chapter XXVI

**Author´s notes:** Alright, this chapter is still phluffy, so savor it while it lasts. Anyway, I might have them leaving soon… but Kay fans know there´s still a lot in store for both of them! Don Giovanni lovers, you know what scenes I´m talking about. If not, go watch the opera! I almost fell off my seat laughing when I saw it for the first time!

X X X

**Chapter XXVI**

X X X X

In the following days, Raoul registered a change in Christine´s behavior. He thought that perhaps the aftermath of their last disaster of a conversation would be awkward, but Christine, whether because she had gotten used to the environment at last or because of something else, seemed to smile a bit more often, and it wasn't an uptight grimace of someone who would rather wish to be elsewhere. She was now even slightly more cheerful, less pale, and seemed to be far happier than before.

He didn't dare question this new development and attributed the happiness to her relief that she didn't have a row with him after the rejection of his marriage proposal. Nevertheless, Raoul was glad that she didn't seem so nervous and timid anymore. For those precious moments, it really seemed that the Little Lotte he used to know was back, as mischievous as ever, though now more mature.

He didn't mention making their engagement more than an illusion, but their pretense now seemed more real, like one of those silly games they used to play as children. Meanwhile, he found out that Christine had agreed to perform a few arias for the court, after some preparation. The shah revealed to him that Erik, the man he had met some time before, was, among a great many other things, an amazing musician. Well, Raoul decided, if his speaking voice sounded as it did, he would be astonished if the man couldn't sing at least ten times as good as the renown tenors.

Thus Christine had someone to practice with.

That meant he saw a great deal less of her, unless he was allowed at their practice, which, as he had learned from Christine, wouldn't be wise, since the performance was supposed to be a surprise gift until one of the khanum´s slaves overheard them… so the only surprise would be the aria she would be singing.

The khanum, from what he had seen, seemed less than happy about letting Erik tutor Christine for the time being. Rumors had reached even his ears – that the woman was quite obsessed with her source of amusement, obsessed with the man himself. Painfully obviously to all but the man in question and the shah. Raoul knew manners, so he didn't dare bring it up at any time.

Their political appointments were going well. Thus far, the situation seemed ideal and as soon as everything would be ready, they would be able to leave. That meant about after Christine´s performance… that would probably be their last night there. Perhaps, during the journey back to Paris, he could talk to Christine again… but he didn't have much hope. She was determined, and he respected her refusal as her final word.

His brother was of a different opinion, however.

"I don't think she should have agreed to do this." Philippe said the next day when they met for lunch. It was a sunny day, Christine was not present, and the elderly de Chagny was just sipping a glass of expensive wine.

Raoul stopped cutting his meat and looked up. "She is free to do as she wishes. And perhaps the shah asked her to sing something, she didn't say how she got this idea."

"That isn't the point, Raoul. Your little prima donna might be the cause of a delay." His brother noted with a frown. Once Raoul asked why Christine would be the cause of anything, Philippe frowned. "You aren't familiar with the customs of these people. I wouldn't show off any… talents, be it modest or otherwise, which I´m sure she won´t." he added when Raoul was about to interject. "Surely you know of the resident harem. I daresay Mademoiselle Daaé wouldn't want to become part of it."

Raoul paled slightly. He hadn't thought of that very much. "But… she isn't a slave or a resident girl. She cannot be viewed as property or a possible candidate for the harem."

"Indeed, but she is an unmarried woman."

"The shah wouldn't risk it." Raoul noted vehemently.

"Perhaps." Philippe noted with a sigh, "It would certainly mean a conflict, for I have no wish to leave Christine here on her own, captive or free. Nevertheless, since she agreed to do it, let her sing. But I would be wary and depart the next day."

"You are getting paranoid, brother."

Philippe smiled sadly. "Sometimes I wish I could live in the perfect little world you do. I´m merely realistic. Just make sure everyone knows – and remembers – that you are engaged. Then we should have nothing to be afraid of." Again, the Count sipped his drink for a moment. "I´m afraid they might ask us to stay a while longer."

"Why?"

"Even ignoring the case of your lovely fiancée, we´ll probably have to wait a while until the shah throws a few lavish parties in our honor, formally thanks us and gives us blessings for the journey. Now add a few delays and the fact that the "King of Kings" has even other things on his mind than us… and we have at least a month to wait." Philippe announced grimly.

Raoul was stunned. "And what are we supposed to be doing till then? Having a constant tour of the palace? The hospitality is appreciated, but we should be returning home one day!"

"That is not all. In case the court will like Christine´s performance, and the opposite is out of the question, they might ask for a reprise."

"Which delays us even further." The Vicomte finished, dropping his cutlery with a deep frown. He was silent for a moment, gazing at his food, until he looked up. "And you know this from…?"

"The shah himself." Philippe announced, "He asked me if we would like to stay. He´ll probably want to show us what is built of his new palace, then we have those papers to sign… as I´ve said, it will take some time."

His brother sighed. "All for France, eh?"

"Naturally." the Count said, with a ghost of a smile.

X X X

The night of the performance was nothing short of thrilling to all audiences. All thought only Christine would be performing, so they were truly unprepared for the strange spectacle that was to be unleashed in front of their eyes.

Four scenes, five characters, each time, they changed costume, both of them. It was possible that no one would really understand what they were singing about, so they sang the songs twice – first in Persian (a difficult feat for Christine, but she mastered the songs after several painstaking lessons) and then in Italian, as they were originally meant to be sung, Still, they were careful enough to show a banner that described where they were and who they were before the song began.

The music was performed strangely. It seemed to simply float around the audience, yet there were no instruments visible and certainly no players present. It wasn't an entire orchestra playing, only two or three instruments, but no one seemed to mind. They didn't want to see the core of the illusion, only tried to see its splendor and savor it until the end.

The remaining voice – the bass they needed for only one scene and only for a few "whispered" lines – also seemed to float out of nowhere, through a magical means unknown to them, and the puppet representing Leporello was considered a real person by most.

Don Giovanni was what they had decided to perform, and so they did.

And how they managed it! They did the scenes in "chronological" order, as they went in the play. Probably no one in the audience had ever heard or seen anything like it and the applause thundered more and more after each of the scenes.

The first arrival of Donna Elvira, Don Giovanni attempting to seduce Zerlina, the graveyard scene where Donna Anna tells Don Ottavio of her attacker, plus the two following arias – one for each character, and, finally, Zerlina convincing her fiancé, Masetto, that she was innocent.

The only difference between the normal version of the opera sung at any theater and their, ignoring the spectacular effects, was the fact that Erik remained masked while singing, and in the play, Don Giovanni was masked only at the beginning… though that was a scene they decided was not good to perform in the current conditions, seeing as it involved Don Giovanni attempting to rape Donna Anna.

Christine had it easier, singing soprano roles each time, however Erik sung parts of all three possible voices: Don Ottavio, the tenor, Masetto, the bass and Don Giovanni, the baritone. And Christine was the only one not surprised that he managed without problems. She knew that her Angel of Music could sing any song he wished and his range would probably make the most accomplished singers faint.

Needless to say, the court hadn't had such splendid and non-violent entertainment in ages.

At the end of the performance, the final applause was so loud that it might have shattered the very foundations of the building. The pair came out, still dressed as peasants, and Christine was almost positively certain that the glass of the windows cracked at least in one of the rooms of the palace.

The shah himself rose from his throne while applauding, as did most of the other politicians, Raoul was beaming at Christine and Philippe was smiling kindly. Only the khanum remained sitting, clapping with a good attempt at enthusiasm, but it seemed more like she was glaring at Christine with the utmost loathing, which wasn't entirely hidden by her many veils.

"Very well done, my friends!" the shah called amidst the clapping. It ceased in a few seconds, since everyone realized the shah wanted to speak. "Very well done indeed! I must say, I anticipated a spectacular spectacle, but you have outdone my wildest imaginings!"

Christine smiled – after hard lessons, the praise was really appreciated. And after days of pouting, she managed to persuade Erik to let her in on the secret of the music. She wasn't about to tell anyone the principle, but they had a good laugh about it later on.

After much more praise, they were finally allowed to go change into their normal clothes and join in the feast. It was a difficult situation – now, after the performance, they had to try to keep as much distance between them as possible, and thus far, it wasn't proving very easy, since it seemed that there was some kind of magnetic connection between them. Whenever they thought they were far away from each other, something seemed to draw them closer and they ended up together.

"I say this calls for another surprise, wouldn't you say, my dear?" the khanum spoke up unexpectedly in the middle of the feast, addressing her son.

The shah nodded, "Indeed." And he turned to the side of the room where Christine and the de Chagnys were sitting, then to the spot where Erik was silently standing, wondering how much longer it will take until he and Christine would be able to get away. "If ever you have the energy and the time to come up with another gift of a performance as wonderful as this, I would be glad to receive it."

Erik only nodded, a motion copied by Christine, who, as the feast progressed, gave and excuse to the de Chagnys and disappeared somewhere. Erik, who had been stealing fleeting glances at her whenever he thought safe, seemed to melt into the shadows – when the khanum searched the hall with her eyes to find him, he was gone.

As planned before, Erik found her in a faraway part of the gardens, a lone figure illuminated by the moonlight waiting anxiously. She jumped a bit when she felt a hand on her shoulder but then smiled and automatically embraced him.

"I´m lead to think you are happy, my dear." He noted softly, running a hand through her curly hair gently.

"I am with you." she raised her head, beaming at him, "How could I be sad? And the night was a success."

Unexpectedly, he released her, only holding her hand. From the glitter that passed through his eyes, she deduced correctly that a smile appeared on his face. "The night is only beginning, Christine…" Smiling wider at the delightfully unknowing expression on her face, when lack of understanding and confusion showed on her moonlit face, he added, "and if you listen, you´ll hear more beautiful music than what they heard tonight."

He began singing softly the music he had denied to show her before, and Christine, her confused face morphing into an enchanted (and, to Erik, enchanting) smile, understood.

_Nighttime sharpens_

_Heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs_

_And wakes imagination_

_Silently the senses_

_abandon their defenses_

Christine´s eyelids slid down slightly, but she remained conscious and aware of her surroundings… even more aware that he slowly pulled her closer as they began to walk through the starlit gardens, their eyes never leaving the other´s.

_Slowly, gently_

_Night unfurls its splendor_

_Grasp it, sense it_

_Tremulous and tender_

_Turn your face away_

_From the garish light of day_

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light_

_And listen to the music of the night…_

The last line was whispered even by Christine and the song ended in an embrace.


	27. Chapter XXVII

**Author´s notes:** Update at long last!

X X X

**Chapter XXVII**

X X X

Christine was reading once more.

There wasn't much else to do when sitting in a train compartment, anyway, so she was reasonably satisfied with this pastime. Only yesterday, she had performed at court and now, she was going home. It seemed that the political paperwork could be done quickly if there was the will to do it quickly, and there had been this time.

With blessings from the shah, they had departed early in the morning, though Christine thought correctly that she hadn't been imagining the sour look the khanum had occasionally given her and the spiteful look she had spared even her own precious son, when, as he claimed, in return for their time and their efforts, they were invited to return to court in winter, when, as the shah noted, the weather might not be so extreme to them (Christine knew he meant her).

She had had little time to talk to Erik, since their packing had been arranged very quickly. Correctly she assumed that he wouldn't be pleased with this, but as he assured her, he knew it wasn't her fault. There was no reason for them to stay now and Christine shouldn't request anything, he said, because it might be suspicious to people.

"There is a good thing about it, though." said Christine, though she wasn't smiling, "I shall see you again. In… half a year."

Erik decided that telling her how quickly people become deceased in Persia once they lose the favor of the rulers was not wise. It would only worry her. Besides, thus far, he had no reason to worry.

"After waiting for years, a few months will not make a difference, my dear. So long as your Vicomte doesn't decide he won´t take a no for an answer."

"He is a friend." Christine said adamantly, "He understands and accepts my refusal."

And that had been the end of their discussion. There wasn't time for long debates. Christine only had time to go say goodbye to Nadir and ask him to tell Reza she would come back and sing something only for him, as soon as she would be able to. Now, she regretted the choice a bit. The child might be… well, dead, according to what she knew, by the time she would be back.

Sighing, Christine flipped the page and continued reading. She was a bit upset that Erik didn't want to and mainly couldn't come with her. Still, she had to admit that if he would have simply vanished from court the day she did, without a trace, and they have been known to be a "team", you could say, it would have been very easy for anyone to guess – even if only by chance – that there was a connection.

She couldn't argue with that logic.

Nevertheless, she had decided to go back to Paris, at least temporarily. She had finished her studies at the Conservatoire, so it was now only a matter of deciding whether to stay in the city or go elsewhere. There were major points against staying – while she could be able to sing at parties or balls, that was pretty much everything.

The Paris Opera wasn't as Grand as its name would suggest.

It was a shame, really. There were many artists in Paris, but when it came to talent… nevertheless, she decided she would try her chances… but not immediately. The first thing she wanted to do was something she hadn't had time to do for a long time. She had to think of more than just herself at the moment.

That, and the fact that within the next week, a friend of hers who had her mother working at the Opéra-Comique told everyone that they were absolutely refusing to accept any sort of new people into the Opera at the moment, seeing as there were some internal problems there. The girl, Meg Giry, translated that to them – the resident Prima Donna (according to Meg, a dried up Italian toad with absolutely no brains) was having her regular set of tantrums, and thus the managers were preoccupied with groveling and attempting to convince her to perform in the upcoming production to even think of auditioning anyone.

That meant that for the upcoming month, anyone´s chances of getting in were small, even with Christine´s talent.

Upon returning to Paris, Christine bade farewell to the de Chagnys. Raoul offered her to stay at their manor for a while, but Christine rejected the offer – she had her own accommodation in the Conservatoire, so she only wanted to return there. In the morning, she had been greeted with almost an applause by her roommates and schoolmates.

It took her the better part of the day to explain what Persia was like, what she saw, what she did, and why she rejected the marriage offer from such a prominent, rich – and handsome, as most of the girls reminded her – aristocrat such as the Vicomte de Chagny. Christine had some doubts whether they would understand that she wished to continue to sing rather than having parties all the time, but most of the time, they said they understood.

A week later, she sent a letter to Rome.

It returned not late afterwards, with a reply, and Christine bade Paris farewell the very night. The journey was long, but she was so lost in thought most of the time that she hardly even noticed how much time had passed. When she collected her luggage, now standing in front of the house she had not seen for years, a sigh escaped her lips. Perhaps she was wrong to have come here.

The house appeared to be empty when she entered. Christine simply climbed the stairs up to her old room and stored her luggage there. She was expected, so no one would be surprised that the luggage was there. She swiftly changed from her traveling gown to a plain brown dress, matching her hair, and went downstairs.

On the table, she found a note she hadn't noticed before. It was addressed to her:

_Christiana, _(she recognized both the handwriting and the more Italian sounding version of her name, used only by one person to address her at times) _your room is prepared for you, I welcome you back in our fair city. I shall come back in the evening. Until then, make yourself at home, __principessa. _

Smiling a bit, she nodded to herself and took the key that had been laid on the note, locking the door as she left the house. She didn't get a carriage – it was still a sunny afternoon, and she preferred to find her own way. Besides, she had a general idea where her destination lay, and she knew Italian more than well enough to be able to ask for directions, should she need them.

Some people looked at her curiously, since her pale visage stood out so well. About half an hour later, she arrived at her destination and entered the building, heading straight for the reception, politely introducing herself, saying what qualification she had and asking the obvious – if there wouldn't be a place for a guest soprano in the Opera House.

The receptionist looked at her for a moment, thinking that she was very young to try to impress the current management, but nevertheless asked her to wait for the moment until the managers could be summoned. Apparently, there was a rehearsal at the moment, and the pair of managers decided to be there personally.

That meant it had to be bad, Christine thought, and as she stood there waiting, she decided that it was all the better for her chances. The receptionist returned moments later, asking her to follow him, since the two signors couldn't be asked to leave the rehearsal at the moment, and that they would talk to her there.

When she entered, the rehearsal was in full swing. And it didn't look that good. The orchestra was good, the dancing bad, the chorus managed, and the soloists were… questionable. Christine recognized the sets as from the opera Lucia di Lammermoor by Gaetano Donizetti, and there seemed to be some problems with the fact that the soloist seemed to be shouting at each other.

One of the managers quickly put his hands over his ears as "Lucia" screamed again after being called a no-talent harlot. In return, she was called that again, and her inability to perform the highest notes of the opera was mocked.

The other manager shook his head and rather turned his back on it all. He seemed to greet Christine, but there was too much shouting to even hear what he was saying, so he pointed at the door and lead the way, closing it just in time to avoid some fragile object being thrown.

Once the door was closed, he sighed. "Excuse that, please, signorina. These things do happen." Christine was under the impression that she knew the phrase from somewhere. "I am Lodovico Nevio, one of the managers at this opera house. Now, I have been told you are looking for a job. You are a soprano, correct?"

"Yes, signor." Christine nodded, "I came to visit my relatives here, and the Paris Opera is not accepting new artists at this time, so I thought that maybe I could temporarily find a job here."

Normally, she would have been asked of her range, but considering the dreadful status of the current rehearsal, the manager only asked her: "Do you know the lines?"

"What…?"

"The lines. For Lucia di Lammermoor. If it goes much further, I shall have to fire one of them, and seeing as it is Emilia who cannot reach the notes required… could you try it?"

Christine bit her lip, but nodded. Nevio smiled in relief and bravely marched back into the shouting match, bellowing "Silenzio!" with such a force that even the squabbling singers quieted down for a moment. he didn't even explain anything to any of them, merely gestured at the stage, and Christine climbed up, a bit nervous about this.

"From the beginning of the aria, please, signorina." The manager breathed, glaring at the "no-talent harlot", who was about to object. The orchestra took it as their cue to play, and Christine took a breath.

_Il dolce suono_

_Mi colpì di sua voce!..._

_Ah! quella voce_

_M'è qui nel cor discesa!..._

_Edgardo! Io ti son resa:_

_Fuggita io son da' tuoi nemici... – Un gelo_

_Mi serpeggia nel sen!... trema ogni fibra!..._

_Vacilla il piè!... Presso la fonte, meco_

_T'assidi alquanto... Ahimé!..._

_Sorge il tremendo_

_Fantasma e ne separa!..._

_Qui ricovriamci, Edgardo, a piè dell'ara..._

_Sparsa è di rose!... Un'armonia celeste_

_Di', non ascolti? – Ah, l'inno Suona di nozze!..._

_Il rito per noi, per noi s'appresta!..._

_Oh me felice! Oh gioia che si sente, e non si dice!_

_Ardon gl'incensi... splendono Le sacre faci intorno!..._

_Ecco il ministro!_

_Porgimi La destra... Oh lieto giorno!_

_Alfin son tua, sei mio! A me ti dona un Dio..._

_Ogni piacer più grato_

_Mi fia con te diviso_

_Del ciel clemente un riso_

_La vita a noi sarà!_

When she finished singing, there was a ringing silence in the entire building. Christine wasn't nervous anymore – she knew she had done well, and if her calculations were correct, they would probably soon be begging her to stay in Rome permanently.

"Emilia… you are hereby replaced." The second of the managers breathed, still gawping at Christine. The Italian diva seemed to get back to reality at the sound of that and marched off, glaring at Christine one last time.

"Can you perform in the production?" he asked immediately when Emilia stalked off. Christine nodded uncertainly. Surprisingly, an applause broke out, mainly from the male soloists, those who had been shouting at Emilia before that.

Wasting no time at all, the managers introduced her to the other artists, who were quite enthusiastic about all this. When Christine returned to the house that evening, she was the unofficial new Prima Donna, and well aware of it.

Her greatest reward, however, was when she saw that someone was already waiting for her at the door. Beaming, she ran towards the figure and embraced the elderly man enthusiastically but gently. A slightly wrinkled hand slowly patted her chestnut curls.

"My dearest… you are back at last."

"I have missed you tremendously, uncle… I have much to tell you."


	28. Chapter XXVIII

**Author's notes:** Things will speed up from now on…storyline-wise, I mean. The replies to your reviews are in my profile.

X X X

**Chapter XXVIII**

X X X X

The theater in Rome became famous right after the premiere of Lucia di Lammermoor, for obvious reasons. That was both a cause of great joy and great distress for the managers, the first primarily because they knew they had hit the jackpot when they accepted Christine Daaé into the business and gave her the main part, the latter because they knew that once the news of this new (and amazing) discovery would reach the nearest other opera house, the young soprano would be swarmed by offers and they would have a hard time in keeping her.

True enough, it took La Scala about a week until representatives nearly assaulted the opera house, demanding to speak with Daaé, and it took them even less to discover where the French diva was living and corner her there. Yet for now, she refused their offers, saying that her uncle needed her. Even the offers of accommodations far greater than they had now were in vain.

"Why do you refuse them, Christabella?" Giovanni once asked her. Christine had been washing dishes after an early supper.

She had discovered what a horrible, empty life he had lead since the… events of a few years ago. Nothing seemed to bring him pleasure anymore, not even masonry. That perhaps, least of all now. But upon her arrival, he either pushed himself into pretending everything was alright or simply her presence had such an effect on him. Christine didn't know which it was, but was determined to make life better for him. She had watched her father fade, and she didn't want the same to come to pass again.

Lowering the plate she had been washing, she turned to face him – he was sitting at the table still, although they weren't talking much right now. Smiling kindly, Christine knew he would not accept her answer. "You are far more important than my… career, uncle."

"And being my maid, my nurse, is what pleases you?" he asked, as she had expected, "You cannot devote yourself to the past, Christine. The future awaits you, and to hide from it would be wrong."

"You are beginning to sound like those reporters." Christine laughed merrily. Indeed, she had rarely had such trouble getting away at the end of the performance – it seemed that every reporter in the city was there and wanted to steal her away for at least an hour's worth of interrogation.

Giovanni shrugged and showed her the newspaper on the table. She made the front page. Christine turned away and continued washing the dishes. La Scala was a tempting prospect, yes, but she had duties here… and she wasn't sure how the audiences were going to take the fact that she would be leaving in a few short months. Perhaps she should have remained in the house and stopped singing for a while.

"Erik would not approve of this decision."

Christine lowered her head and then turned immediately. Giovanni was gazing into space, aimlessly, as he seemed to have been doing very often since she had left. Crouching next to him, Christine attempted a smile. She had not told him of her encounter with Erik, partially because she was afraid of what shock it might bring him (even she hadn't exactly been expecting to run into him) and partially because she hoped that one day, she would bring more than simply news of him back.

"Erik would understand. He loved you very much, and I'm certain he still does." she said firmly, "Whatever had happened, no power in this world is strong enough to change that."

As if returning from a world of fantasy, Giovanni looked at her, smiled briefly and gently patted her head. "I believe you, child. He poured a bit of his soul into you – who would know better? Still, you are meant for grand things and one day, I know you will triumph on the greatest stages of Europe."

"But not today." Christine stood up and went to continue the washing.

X X X

Months passed quickly. The fight between the opera houses continued – each continued offering her more and more. While their household was now much better off financially, Christine cared little for money. She sang without much passion nowadays, still perfect, but her mind elsewhere.

She had visited La Scala on occasion and sang there as a guest star, and Italy was bewildered. She sang Gilda in Rigoletto, and afterwards had been introduced to their "star" composer, Signor Giuseppe Verdi, who was quick to ask her to stay permanently, claiming that even though the operas that would be written for her voice would be impossible to sing to other sopranos, they would be the most spectacular works, if one would have such a magnificent inspiration.

Though she promised that she would return to Italy, she said that perhaps it would be wrong to compose such an opera, if it would be impossible to sing to all but one. Nevertheless, she was honored to meet a rising star of a composer, and confirmed that she too would be glad to meet him again some time later.

However, when the time came to return to Paris, she was more concerned with what Giovanni might say than with the outrage of her admirers and the audiences of Italy. She told him about a week before her departure, telling few details, but assuring him that once her visit to the East was over, she would return for certain.

Giovanni accepted it with a certain passivity which she didn't like. But she could do little about it, since the time to leave was so close. She had done her best. Not late afterwards, she was sitting in a carriage, riding back to France, where she was to meet the de Chagnys again. She had received a few letters from Raoul, telling her that it would be good if she would come to their home, where she could rest, where they could talk for a while before setting off on the long journey again.

Christine entered a city that, due to its current weather, resembled London far more than Paris. The chateau de Chagny stood away from the heart of the city, but the heavy rain didn't get any better there, perhaps the contrary. A butler was waiting outside with an umbrella and escorted Christine into the main hall, where several maids quickly bowed to her and offered to remove her cloak.

"I shall tell the young master that you are here, Mademoiselle." The butler said, bowing and exiting.

Soon after, Raoul strode out of what seemed to be the salon and, spotting her, he smiled broadly as he approached, and brought her hand to his lips gently. "It is wonderful to see you again, Christine."

"Likewise." The reply didn't come from Christine, however, but from the Comte de Chagny, who had just arrived as well, and was now at the door. The butler was removing his cloak, and Philippe seemed to be a little irritated, but clearly not by their guest.

Smiling slightly, Christine nodded to both of them respectfully. After the usual questions concerning the time they had been parted, the three proceeded to the dining hall, where nothing short of a feast (to Christine, at least) was awaiting them. She stopped herself from staring just in time and sat down. That night, she felt probably for the first time like a princess would, and realized that the nickname Principessa was suitable only for this occasion.

They talked about many things, and it almost seemed like a tennis match, because whenever one asked something about the other's life, a question was fired back at them. Raoul, who seemed to have been keeping track of her to some degree, knew most of what she had been up to. When Christine inquired how come he knew, she was told that the family had become patrons of the Paris Opera House, though it seemed to be a little less profitable than they expected, and even there, they watched out for concurrence.

"I must ask you for a favor, Christine." Philippe said, "Once we return, please move back to Paris so I might finally kick out our resident Prima Donna." Christine laughed, but Philippe's face remained serious. "I mean it. The Italian wench has been driving me out of my mind for the past few weeks."

"Signora Carlotta Guidicelli." Raoul explained. Christine recognized the name. "She's our Prima Donna, but ever since the managers lost control of her, she's been complaining about pretty much everything. She can sing, but her ego overshadows any kind of ability."

"The Prima Donna syndrome." Christine concluded, playing with her fork a bit. "I can't say. I haven't made any definite plans after our return, so…" she kept the sentence hanging in the air, "but I would like to return to Paris, someday. It also depends on my uncle – I have no wish to leave him alone any longer. He is able, but growing old. And he needs some company."

The night didn't prove as restless as any of them imagined it, but nevertheless, none seemed too eager to leave early in the morning, not even Christine, who knew that she should be looking forward to seeing Erik again. They bade farewell to a stormy and dull December in Paris and proceeded to the train station.

Though the ride was as long as it was before, the last one seemed like a minute compared to the eternity of this journey. This time, however, they spoke far more than during the last journey, so it was a bit more bearable than it would have been otherwise. Nevertheless, all three were glad to finally see the end of it. Tehran was their destination this time.

Another lavish feast had been thrown upon their arrival, but they were grateful for that. And once they reached the main dining hall and each took their bows, Christine felt a pair of eyes watching her. Looking up, she saw not gold, but jade, and the ghost of a smile passed through her face before she was forced to move her gaze from Nadir Khan.

The shah addressed them far kindlier than they would have at first expected, since there seemed to be talk of political clashes in the country. "It pleases me greatly that our European friends have accepted my invitation and came to spend the winter with us, brightening these days for all of Persia." The speech went on for a minute before the feast was officially opened, but it seemed to last even longer than the journey and not even Erik's sudden appearance would have made Christine want to stay any longer. He did not show up, however, and she hoped that Nadir's presence didn't signify anything bad. But the Persian didn't look grim, so she assumed that things were going semi-well.

Servants have been appointed to show them to their quarters, but they were more than certain that they knew the way. The two de Chagnys were escorted away, but as Christine moved to follow the slave, someone called her and she turned to see none other than the khanum herself (with an interpreter, of course) a few steps behind her down the corridor, with a thin smile beneath her veils.

"I have wished to speak with you, my dear." the khanum said, "You have graced me with entertainment better than I could think of during your last visit, and I have been wanting to repay the favor."

"There is no need for that, your majesty." Christine shook her head.

"I insist that you join me tomorrow." Her tone showed that she was not to be argued with, so Christine remained silent. But then the sharpness vanished and her smile reappeared. "I have few to talk to in this palace, few worthy of conversation. And I would be pleased if you wouldn't feel… left out. Political affairs must be boring to a lady."

"If you wish it…" Christine said uncertainly, "I have no plans for tomorrow, seeing as we have only just arrived…"

"Excellent." the khanum said, and her eyes flashed with something close to victory, "One more thing, my dear." She nodded to a slave girl that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, but then Christine realized that she had stood there for the whole time, but was so young and petite that she hadn't seen her. The slave held out a box to Christine. "I would ask you to wear this. Do not worry – it is not indecent. I know women of the West prefer a different type of clothing, but here, you can wear it freely, without being frowned upon."

Taking the package, Christine took off the lid, revealing a dress. It reminded her a bit of the costume the slave girls had worn during the production of Hannibal. Consisting of two pieces, the top was of an earthy brown color. Oriental symbols were embroidered upon it in the colors of copper and gold. For all its beauty, it would probably only about an inch bellow her breasts.

The lower part were trousers, but they reminded her more of a skirt. Most of them were made of a flowing chiffon-like material, only the top that would reach to a few inches down her tight was made of satin, or something very similar to it, also embroidered. But despite that, she realized that it wouldn't be revealing at all, for accompanying it all was a very long mahogany veil that would surely reach down to her knees, at the very least.

Christine looked at the khanum with some shock. Not because she didn't want to wear it. It was that she wasn't sure why the khanum was giving her this – the attire worthy of a Persian princess, surely. But the shah's mother smiled again.

"You are my guest and I would like us to be friends. A servant will come and fetch you around midday. Good night." she said and motioned to the slave and the interpreter to follow her.


	29. Chapter XXIX

**Author's notes: **Alright, all is explained here! Reviews are in the profile, as usual.

X X X

**Chapter XXIX**

X X X X

Christine, being led to her chambers, thought of something other than Erik – for the first time since they arrived. Her eyes kept moving to the package in her arms, as if she was afraid she might lose it if she didn't check whether or not it was there. God only knew the dress must have cost a fortune. Yet she knew not why she had been awarded with such a gift. Surely the khanum – from what she had heard, a rather non-pleasant woman – didn't want her for anything?

Hearing a set of brisk footsteps behind her, she stopped and turned, half-expecting Erik to turn up. Her hopeful face fell a bit, but she was pleased to see Nadir Khan nevertheless. The Persian made a gesture to the slave, who also stopped to see what was going on. The girl quickly nodded, bowed to Christine and set off very quickly.

"It pleases me to see you again, Christine." He was still not devoid of the heavy accent, but she could hear that his French had been bettered greatly. He was clad simply, mostly in dark shades, and despite his warm greeting, he seemed to be troubled by something. "You are wondering where Erik is." The Persian noted with the briefest and lightest of smiles.

Christine would have laughed, were it not for the seriousness of the situation and the unease she felt. "That is only one of the many questions that troubles me." Nadir's eyes fell on the package in her hands, and a questioning look settled on his face.

"That isn't one of your belongings… who gave you that?"

"The khanum. She wants me to meet her tomorrow around midday. I don't know why… she said little that I could guess from." Christine opened the package and showed the daroga the dress. "And she said I am to wear this."

Predictably, the Persian frowned. "Strange."

"You believe I shouldn't go?"

"No, you must go. Risking insulting the shah's mother is most unwise." He said immediately. "However, be careful." He returned the dress to its package and looked at Christine. "I know not what she would want from you, but be assured that this is no friendly invitation. There is some plot, something in the background."

"You believe she wants to use me?" Christine asked doubtfully.

"Pardon me for saying this, but I'd say that from the political point of view, you are worthless to her." The Persian fell silent, but didn't voice his thoughts. They were clear, however. The khanum could have figured things out by now, and… "Erik is away from the palace today. He shall return tomorrow – or is already on his way, the fool, since he should know of your arrival by now." Bowing slightly, Nadir turned to leave.

"How is Reza?" Christine couldn't resist calling.

The Persian stopped in his tracks, yet didn't turn. Christine saw that he bowed his head slightly. "Still alive." And he left.

X X X

The first part of the first day back was uneventful.

Christine unpacked on her own, since she sorely needed something to do. Walking in the gardens wouldn't be able to attract her attention for so long, and she couldn't do what she yearned most – sing. It was an outlet of energy that she knew she would miss.

However, true to her word, the khanum did send a fetching girl for Christine at eleven o clock. By that time, Christine had tried on the dress. It fitted her more or less, and the veil covered most of her. It made her seem less European, due to its color. The pallor of her skin seemed to have been drowned beneath the shades of brown. Still, it was comfortable to not wear a corset once in a while.

The slave led her outside, past the gardens and the main entrance of the palace. While Christine had never been to the harem, she had been told that that was something like the khanum´s private domain. And she had been enlightened about what a harem is. She understood it, but didn't like it.

Her host she recognized only due to the fact that the khanum was clad in the most expensive fabrics. However, the other woman recognized her immediately, despite the shielding veils. "Welcome, dear." she welcomed Christine, with that same strange warmness that sent chills up Christine's spine.

Christine bowed. "I am here, your majesty. You said you wished to speak with me."

"Conversations can wait until after the entertainment, can they not?" the khanum replied lightly, but Christine remained uneasy. "Come – I believe you will find this interesting."

The khanum began walking somewhere and Christine followed, along with several of the servants. It seemed that they knew well where they were going, and some were anxious, some eager, but all seemed to be more or less frightened. Only the khanum was calm, as if nothing was happening. Being the only one not knowing what was going on was not what Christine expected.

In the end, they proceeded to a balcony, large enough to fit them all. The khanum made a motion to some guards nearby, who disappeared from sight and then brought forth a screaming man, clad in rags. They dragged him into the strangest thing that would have caught Christine's attention the moment she had arrived, were it not for the screams that distracted her.

A hexagonal chamber, with mirrors as walls… and in the middle, the strangest object of all. A tree. Yet that was no decoration to display a piece of fauna. A rope was tied to it. A rope that ended with a noose…

Before Christine could even realize what was going on, the guards thrust the prisoner into the chamber, and by some miracle, a terrible spectacle began. It could have been hours, for all Christine knew. Yet she could not tear her eyes from what was happening, despite the tears of horror, shock and pity that she felt on her face. She couldn't move a muscle, and therefore didn't notice that the while khanum was enjoying the entertainment, she kept glancing at her and smiling ever so slightly.

Never in her entire life had Christine seen something so terrible. It was more than disgusting – it was twisted, sick and twisted, and the screaming continued, until she thought she would never get the sound out of her head. Finally, however, the victim didn't have the strength to resist the rope that meant freedom and hung himself.

The moment of the appalling crack was when Christine began panting. She didn't scream, or shriek, but felt as if she had run a mile. She now glanced down at her knees, feeling her insides burning.

"Enjoyed that, my dear?" the khanum´s voice reached her ears. She dared not look up. "I confess it might have been slightly unorthodox for a European such as you, but entertaining nonetheless." She paused, but received no reply, so she continued. "You should enjoy this, too. It will be… swifter, but more amusing." Clapping her hands twice, she did something again, and Christine heard footsteps leaving.

Was this meant to be a torment for her, or did the sick woman really think she would like this? Christine didn't know. She felt sick, very sick, and was afraid that if she would have to look at another of these… procedures… she would throw up or faint for sure. Gathering the last of her strength, she looked to where the khanum was looking.

It was outside the chamber, but this time, it seemed even stranger. The guards led out a second prisoner, if you could call the man that. This one was armed and dressed properly, almost like a soldier would be. Then someone else walked out and the khanum looked at Christine again.

Christine almost shrieked this time, but couldn't find her voice. Somehow… this was too cruel. Slowly, she began to understand. But she didn't want to.

The armed prisoner charged at his opponent. If someone would have blinked, they would have missed it. The soft swooshing of a thin lasso, not unlike the one the first prisoner had hung himself upon. And a moment later, a sword fell to the ground. Its wielder was dead.

The victor turned round, his eyes lingering for a moment on Christine, whom he scanned for a moment. She was a stranger, but he supposed it was one of the more prominent ladies of the harem. Yet Christine did not fail to recognize the eyes, least of all the mask that hid his features.

Formalities aside, Christine stood up and vanished with a whoosh of the veils. The khanum almost chuckled out loud. Even through the fabrics, she could see her "guest" paling with each moment.

"Well done again, my friend." She called from the balcony. Erik, who had been collecting the lasso, looked up. The routine killing was getting really tiresome, especially since it was hindering his progress with the palace. And Christine had arrived yesterday, or so he heard.

He had devoted himself to work in order to survive those months of separation. And that he did, yet it resulted in the fact that he failed to meet her on the night of her arrival. But the sooner he would finish the palace, the sooner he would leave. With Christine, if she wished it.

"But it seems Miss Daaé didn't like the performance much."

It was almost like an icy dagger passed through him. At once he looked at the khanum – the smirk in her voice he ignored – and a mix of shock and disbelief ignited itself in his eyes. "I believe I misheard you, Madame."

"Oh, I think not." The khanum heard the slight wavering in his voice, which angered and pleased her both. "I invited her to have a look at my way of enjoying myself, since she sang for me once. She didn't like it, I'm afraid." She said with false remorse. "At least she liked the dress I gave her – she was sitting here with me, clad in brown. You saw her, I suppose?"

The dagger had been twisted in the wound.

X X X

Locking the doors and sealing the windows, Christine threw herself on the bed. She didn't care about any of the khanum´s plots now, or the reasons why she had been showed that horrible torture. Nothing mattered to her now.

She remembered the terrible night of Luciana's death. She remembered the voice, cold as ice, the hand that threw her to the ground, the mad gleam in his eyes as he tore the mask from his face.

_You want to see? You want to see! Then look!_

But it was today that she had finally seen underneath the mask.

Christine felt more than miserable. She had lived in a dream. More than anyone else, she blamed herself, for her naivety, her childish trust. The Angel of Music? There was none. He had left long ago, and there was only Erik. Only Erik.

She had loved the Angel. Had she loved Erik? Before this? Before she knew? She had. Now? She couldn't. Not even all that he had given her could ever excuse this… this… twisted evil she had witnessed unleashed the moment the prisoners died.

"Christine!" came a knock from the door. Looking up with red eyes, Christine recognized Raoul´s voice. She stood up to let him in and opened the door, but took a step back at once.

"Christine, please listen…"

"No!" she screamed and backed away. It was Erik who stood in the doorway, Erik, who, probably perceiving that she wouldn't have let him in now used some skill to imitate Raoul´s voice. At the sight of her – her puffy red eyes, still teary, the tangled mass of her hair and a pained expression on her face – even his determination to be firm seemed to vanish.

He shut the door behind him – Christine didn't even bother lowering her voice. "I've seen enough! More than enough!"

"What you have seen…"

"How could you do that to those people?" she whispered, "How? You, with such capacity for good." Erik reached for her left arm, but she drew away. "Don't touch me!" A sob escaped her lips.

"Let me explain!" Erik interrupted her. But Christine shook her head.

"There is nothing to explain. Go."

"Christine…"

"I hate you! I hate you, your sick and twisted self! Had I known your soul matches your face, I would have never promised anything! Truly you are as monstrous as all believe, Erik!"

For a moment, silence fell, as Christine looked into Erik's eyes, which seemed completely blank. He didn't seem enraged, merely silenced. It would take time for the pain to show outwardly, and while her words were harsh, Christine didn't take them back.

Then, without a word, Erik turned and left, leaving her to her maddening grief. No word could describe the comparison between the first wound and this fatal blow, but he saw that with it, Christine brought ruin to herself as well, robbing herself of happiness and perhaps sanity at the same time. That on its own accord pained him, but not as much as her words.

_Truly you are as monstrous as all believe, Erik!_ _I hate you! _

The words rang in his ears for hours as he sat in his chambers. And then, all vanity and pride forgotten he cried, after what seemed years.


	30. Chapter XXX

**Author's notes:** Whoa, people! 30th chapter! And we're way past the half of the phic! Replies are in my profile, as usual. Chocolate for all who discover the two lines from a musical in this chapter and name them. One is worded a bit differently.

X X X

**Chapter XXX**

X X X X

Days passed surprisingly quickly, even though Christine had expected the opposite, since she wanted to leave the country with every fiber of her being. She had no other reason to stay now. The only positive aspect of it all was that Raoul had come to comfort her a bit after he found her looking as if someone had died.

While he didn't really find out what caused her sadness, he proclaimed that he had been neglecting her for too long, and that the stay was supposed to be a gift for her, not a punishment. However, unlike Christine, he noticed the occasional, brief looks of triumph the khanum spared Christine.

In a few days, at a ball organized for the Europeans, Christine was almost completely happy again. Naturally, thinking of Erik hurt, but she had been doing everything in her power not to. And he was making it easier – he had vanished from her sight and she hadn't seen as much as a shadow of him ever since. At least she had stopped singing – or rather, whispering – the aria "Ah, ich fühl´s, es ist verschwunden" whenever she was alone.

The ball had been organized as a celebration of Christmas for the visitors and as an ordinary display of the palace's splendor to the wealthy visitors from the point of view of the natives. She spent the evening dancing with Raoul, who rather didn't bother bringing up that she looked much happier now.

Christine did not expect to get any gifts for Christmas, not after so many she had received when they came to Persia for the first time, so when Raoul presented her with a diamond diadem, she resembled a wide-eyed ingénue more than ever, since she stared at the jewelry with no attempt to hide her shock and surprise.

Once Raoul´s chuckle brought her back to reality, she backed away a bit. "Oh, no, Raoul. I cannot accept this." She said, defensively putting her hands in front of her.

"Christine, please." he said calmly, but a bit insistently, "It is a gift to you, and refusal would be insulting. Besides, you could say it symbolizes my faith that you will secure the most important role in the upcoming opera production in Paris when we return." She was about to interrupt, but he silenced her with a move of his hand not unlike her own defensive gesture. "I have told Philippe that his idea of your return to Paris isn't a bad idea."

"Even if I would accept that idea, I thought that Signora Giudicelli is your current leading lady. Wouldn't she be the one wanting that role?"

Raoul smiled. "That is beauty of it. She can't. The high F, I believe, is beyond her range."

Now knowing exactly what he meant, Christine laughed. "Mozartean repertoire is my specialty, yes, but I would be lucky to get even the part of Papagena, being a newcomer."

"That is settled, then." Raoul said firmly, "You'll come with us."

The end of December passed with any unusual events. The same could not be said for January, however. News swept the palace that the Grand Vizier had been murdered, his veins opened by unknown assassins. Still, few were in doubt who was responsible for the order. Even Christine knew by now how enemies were eliminated in Persia.

Philippe was slightly intimidated by this, but nevertheless chose not to mention his opinion on the barbaric ways that would have been normal in the Middle Ages, perhaps, but not in the civilized world of today. Now that their main function as ambassadors was done, he felt a bit caged, since he was more of a man of action than the simple sitting around and being entertained that filled their days now.

Nadir Khan wasted no time and interrogated Erik about everything, but got the whole story only after he received a scorpion bite. Fortunately, the antidote was at hand. Still, despite knowing that the Vizier had been dead before Erik could arrive at the scene of the crime, some of the words they exchanged haunted the Persian.

"_I'm not concerned with paid assassins ... mindless, soulless animals who excel at nothing else. But you, Erik ... you love all the beauty in this world... you are a genius in so many different fields. Why do you set yourself beyond the pale of humanity by such a despicable crime?"_

"_This face which has denied me all human rights also frees me of all obligation to the human race. My mother hated me, my village drove me from my home, I was exhibited like an animal in a cage until a knife showed me the only way to be free. The pleasures of love will always be forbidden to me ... but I am young, Nadir, I have all the desires of any normal man."_

"_I hated him! I hated him for being wise and respected ... and loved. I hated him for making me look in the mirror of his eyes to see the loathsome thing I have become ..."_

Despite the death of the Vizier, a wedding was to take place soon. Even as Nadir thought of it, he felt sick. _Any man may force himself upon a woman and say it is the custom?_ He actually felt ashamed of his own country when Erik spat that out. Yes, the Vizier's widow, the shah's sister, was to marry the son of the new Grand Vizier.

The celebrations were, naturally, made far more interesting by Erik's performance with a literally "living" corpse that rose from its sarcophagus at his command. Christine was looking at her lap all the time – Raoul assumed it was because she was disgusted by the scene – and only heard the collapse of the skeleton when Erik clapped his hands.

Erik retrieved the skull and from its jaw withdrew the prime minister's signet ring, tossing it at the feet of the stupefied Vizier's son with a gesture of contempt.

"I trust your Excellency's son will prove less careless with his second-hand possessions," he said pointedly.

After a stunned silence, however, Christine heard something being tossed and an applause broke out. That probably meant that the political undertones of the performance had been ignored for the time being. Exhaling a bit, she felt Raoul grip her hand reassuringly.

The following "party" went surprisingly pleasant for most of the time, though Nadir and Christine exchanged a few glances that plainly assured them that they were both thinking the same thing – that this little display was way too dangerous. However, it seemed that nothing was going to happen.

Caught in a conversation with several of the court members, the two de Chagnys didn't notice what Christine did moments later – Nadir had vanished. With a deep frown, against her better judgment, her eyes searched the surroundings for Erik. He was also gone. Making a polite excuse, Christine hurried away. She didn't like this at all.

Leaving the chatter and lights behind her, she continued walking away until she almost slipped and fell on something. Looking down, she saw something red poured on the floor. It was too dark, too foreboding to be a simple spilled cup of wine. Her heart froze for a second. She was almost certain that it was…

"Blood." she whispered, her voice shaking. Looking up, she thought she saw a figure of an animal – or two – a camel… or a horse, she couldn't tell, no matter how much she squinted her eyes.

"Christine?" someone put hands on her shoulders, and she recognized Raoul´s voice behind her. She didn't move. "What's the matter? Are you alright?" Finally tearing her eyes away from the space in front of her, she turned to Raoul with a stoic face.

"I… I'd like to return to my chambers, Raoul. I feel tired."

The Vicomte sighed but nodded. "Yes, tonight has been exhausting. Shall I escort you, Christine?"

"If you wish it." she said quietly, receiving no reply, other than the hand that took hers and she was led, supported, back into the palace.

X X X

The next day, Christine immediately went in search for Nadir. She found him rather quickly, surprisingly – it seemed that he had been looking for her as well, judging by his rather hurried pace and almost desperate expression.

"Christine! At last…"

"What has happened to Erik?" she interrupted immediately. The Persian sighed deeply. "Nadir, I saw the blood. I know something has happened and I demand that you tell me what happened yesterday after you disappeared from my sight."

"He has been poisoned." Nadir raised a hand to silence Christine's gasp of terror. "I cannot say what poison it is, but judging by the symptoms, it's fatal. He… demanded to be brought to Mazenderan… to finish explaining the palace plans. He fainted several hours later, but fought in delirium. Saying something about someone called Sasha – a pet, I'd guess, from what he said – and a fall… a cage… and you."

Christine lowered her eyes for a moment. "The khanum showed me her entertainment." She said, answering the unspoken question.

There was a pause. "Christine, I beseech you to forget what you have seen. You do not know the khanum as well as most of those around you. She showed you this for precisely this reason – to separate you. So my fears have been confirmed." The Persian sighed again. "I would say she only suspects. If nothing else, she sees that Erik has an interest in you. This is her way of securing that even if his face wouldn't scare you off, you would want to have nothing to do with him."

"That might be the truth, but I can never come to terms with what I have seen."

"You have seen how law is enforced in Persia. To live among the wolves, you must learn to howl like a wolf, or they shall tear you apart. And I daresay that Erik's life was far from being like yours – filled with only light and pleasures. Not all see past his face, like you and I. and even fewer are willing to see. Whatever you may believe, he loves you like he loves nothing or no one else. It borders with obsession."

Christine laughed humorlessly. "You are saying I should succumb simply because otherwise I am risking his wrath?"

"No. But know that if anyone can change the horrors you saw, it is you and you only." Nadir said, "He's calling for you in his sleep… I've come to ask if you would at least give him the final comfort of forgiveness. Before he…"

"I'll come." Christine said before he could finish. Saying it out loud would make it too… final, definite.

X X X

Upon their arrival to the house, Christine was welcomed by Reza, who, looking more pitiful than ever, seemed determined that Erik will wake up if he is spoken to. When Christine was led to the room where Erik lay, she paled. Never did he look more like a corpse, which was saying something.

Immediately, she walked towards the bed and sat down next to it, touching a deathly cold hand. "Please bring me a bucket of hot water and a cloth." She ordered. Upon receiving that, she put away all the jewelry on her hands, she placed the wet cloth on his forehead, her left hand still holding his.

"I don't believe that will do much good." Nadir said when he returned after about an hour. Christine didn't look up, merely noted that it won't do any hard either, so there was nothing wrong with doing it.

Christine didn't cry as would have perhaps been natural – the inability to do anything to help had brought a passive acceptance of the situation. She spent several hours sitting there, with the occasional interruptions of Nadir or Reza – only for the first three times – and continued with her work, silent.

"God shan´t allow you to die, Erik." she finally whispered when night had fallen, "God is merciful and He loves you. I love you." she said after a pause.

"I heard that." Came a very quiet whisper and Christine almost knocked over the bucket of water in shock when a pair of eyes wearily opened a bit. "And as your teacher, I command you to say it again."


	31. Chapter XXXI

**Author's notes**: Hah! An update! I suppose we're nearing the end, people… this will be told from 2 povs now, naturally, before… well, you get the idea. :P Anyway, there are some dialogues from Kay here, there was no avoiding it, since you have to know what is going on…

X X X

**Chapter XXXI**

X X X X

Over the next few weeks, Raoul would often comment that Christine seemed lost in thought. She would always shrug the question off with a smile saying that she was simply missing her uncle and busy with her new part. After all, a new production required her utmost attention and since Raoul had already informed his brother that she agreed to come with them (much to Philippe's relief, due to the fact that Carlotta was bound not to be singing the main role now) she had no other choice but keep her word and return to Paris with them.

Despite the smoothness of their departure and arrival in the city, things went badly from the moment they entered the opera house. The managers, two rather non-musical and comical characters, very carefully informed a rather disapproving Comte de Chagny that Carlotta had tried, despite all odds, to study the part of die Königin. She managed quite well in the first part of the less famous of the two arias, somehow got past most of the coloratura, but even after five attempts – four of which have been accompanied by increasing rage – she had not managed to reach the required high note.

Throwing a tantrum about leaving if they wouldn't change the production, she stormed off and returned only when the managers came back groveling and assuring her that they would change the production and assured her that she would secure the title role. As the rest of the musical world was eagerly anticipating the soon-to-be-premiered "La Traviata" in Venice within a few months, Carlotta demanded a fresh triumph immediately. In desperation, the managers, neither much of a musician, chose "La Sonnambula" ("The Sleepwalker") as their main project until then.

Christine was right when she had thought that getting in would be difficult. In fact, hadn't it been for the involvement of the two de Chagnys, who insisted that they at least listen to one song, she wouldn't have even been considered as a potential performer. She was slightly nervous when she produced the sheet music for her aria, knowing perfectly what the conductor would say.

As she had anticipated, the conductor, Monsieur Reyer, looked at the papers, a slight crease between his eyebrows, then at her, then at the papers again, as if judging if she could do it. She doubted that herself, but since Erik specifically told her to go with that. After a few seconds, Reyer decided not to say anything and sat himself behind the piano, playing the first few notes. Christine joined in, absent-mindedly but perfectly, and sang the "vengeance aria" of die Königin der Nacht with apparent ease.

She slipped only on one note, and just because noises were heard outside, followed by very loud screaming of a woman's voice in what seemed to be Spanish, and Firmin, one of the managers, hurried outside. The shrieks and screams faded for a moment, but once Christine had finished, they seemed to have been strengthened by anger and hysteria. Looking around, Christine saw Raoul determinedly looking at the ground, trying not to laugh.

The remaining manager, André, clapped enthusiastically, apparently very surprised, but looked at Reyer for professional commentary. The conductor stood up, nodded slightly and collected the music sheets.

"Your technique and range are surprising, Mademoiselle, but to take on this part, you would have to practice somewhat nonetheless. For the first aria, it would be sufficient, perhaps. But for this, it would not – in terms of acting. You aren't being angry enough, considering that "the vengeance of hell stirs in your heart"." he noted, handing the papers over to her.

Christine nodded timidly, partially because of the ever-increasing volume of the shrieking outside. The second manager chose to go to his partner's aid, and it seemed that the combined forces of the two men managed to convince the screaming woman to at least come with them. While the two de Chagnys congratulated Christine and Reyer asked her if she knew what La Sonnambula was about and what part she wished to try out for, the pair of clearly intimidated and tired managers returned and as she was about to say that she would like to audition for Amina, with the main character's aria "Come per me sereno", Firmin interrupted.

"We've decided to accept you, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"And after some deliberations we've decided that the part of Teresa will be fitting for you." André added, rather hastily.

Reyer raised his eyebrows and stared at the managers. Christine stared as well – she was well aware that the managers were very eager to keep Carlotta and that the "deliberations" meant that they groveled and groveled until Carlotta would be satisfied with their decision. The de Chagnys, apparently unaware of the size of the parts, caught up with the rest by seeing the looks on the other two's faces.

Reyer was the first to recover. "Messieurs, she might not have the proper range for Teresa. A soprano acuto sfogato won't be able to hit the lower notes necessary for a mezzo-soprano part…"

"I'm certain the mademoiselle will manage it under your supervision, Monsieur Reyer." Firmin noted, glaring at the conductor.

Christine was at a loss of words. She knew something like this might happen, but she shared Reyer´s sentiments. While she didn't care how big her part was, she wasn't a mezzo-soprano, she would have problems with the role. She just stood there, only half-listening to Reyer.

"Perhaps she could sing Lisa, the innkeeper?" he suggested, "That _is_ a soprano part, and it's not the lead, which I'm assuming you mean to give to La Carlotta…"

But André shook his head. "This is the fourth time this week she has threatened to walk out and after hearing… well, she wouldn't settle for anything else." He hastily amended, though there was no need to say the sentence out loud. Apparently, Carlotta had heard Christine's audition and wasn't keen to be outperformed by a newcomer.

Finally regaining her voice, Christine nodded. "I see. Very well – I'll do it." She said, to the relief of the managers and the conductor's surprise. "But only because your patrons are good friends of mine, Messieurs." she said, as close to a diva voice she could get, "Might I remind you that La Scala awaits my return to perform Leonore in Fidelio, and they don't confuse the size of a diva's ego with that of her relent." A twinge of regret passed trough her mind, but she said her goodbye and walked out without another look at anyone.

X X X

"You did not survive your dangerous journey through the Elburz ... a landslide ... a tiger ... a Turkoman, there are half a dozen deaths a solitary messenger could have met. Choose whichever pleases you and disappear. There is sufficient in that purse to ensure you never need to carry messages again. Go now and be sure you do not speak of this to anyone ... if you betray me, I promise that I will take the greatest pleasure in personally arranging your extinction!"

After a single month, the khanum had called upon Erik to return to Tehran immediately. The situation was growing darker and more serious with each day. Reza´s health was failing by the day, the khanum wasn't pleased, and Christine had left… permanently, this time. It had been two full weeks, yet still it seemed to drag on forever.

Two more months passed slowly, two months during which a rainbow had been painted for Reza, as Erik had put it, showing the sick boy the most beautiful music, the most amazing magic tricks, yet none of that could ever help avoid the inevitable. The boy's death had been quick, hopefully painless and easy, and a part of Nadir Khan's life had ended. They had returned to the palace, and the daroga had been summoned by the shah to be interrogated about the recent palace plans and whether or not Erik considered himself rewarded adequately for his services.

The daroga was unnerved. He could sense the khanum´s jealous anger behind all this, an anger that had been ignited long ago and blazed the strongest the night Christine and her companions had departed, and if looks could kill when Daaé had been asked to sing once more for the shah as a parting gift, the young soprano would have been dead before she had even opened her mouth to sing "Ave Maria" by Franz Schubert, bringing the first and probably last Christian prayer to the Islamic halls of the palace.

The gift was a slave from the royal harem, barely having finished her training as a concubine. As all in the palace, Nadir including, there was no greater honor for the shah to bestow upon a favored servant than the gift of a harem virgin ... the gift of a wife.

The girl was more than horrified, since she knew, as she had confirmed the night, what was expected of her. The daroga watched Erik struggle against his own desires as he offered her a bargain she was unlikely to receive from anyone else – one night… and then she would be free to live the rest of her life in wealth, no longer a slave. The Persian imagined that part of the reason was his understanding that she was terrified and another part was that none other than Christine Daaé would ever be able to sate Erik's passions fully. The other option she had was death.

But as she burst into hysteric tears and screams, not answering Erik's demands of whether she would rather die than spend a single night with him, he ordered an eunuch to take the child away, despite the general astonishment it caused and Nadir's protests that such an action would be the greatest breach of etiquette Erik could commit… an insult to the shah.

But nothing would persuade Erik, least of all Nadir's question why he would risk such things for a mere slave. Being thrown unceremoniously out of the chambers, Nadir soon found out that the next day, the khanum had called upon Erik to watch a demonstration of torture – none other than the slave girl that he had sent away the previous day was to be the victim of the infamous hexagonal chamber that day.

"I see that you have learnt nothing under my tuition, madam. I find your choice of subject vulgar and tedious, the work of an amateur who has failed to understand her artistic limitations." Erik had said after seeing what she had brought him to witness. Nevertheless, despite the insult, or perhaps because of it, the khanum didn't refrain from her entertainment, despite Erik's immediate departure.

"If you want to retain any sanity at all you have to get out of Persia soon," Nadir said, months later, after an attack on the shah himself, when all was fearing revolution, after the first time Erik had to correct a project that had displeased the shah. "You know that, don't you?"

"When the palace is finished, I'll think about it." Erik retorted with a light shrug, despite the Persian's warnings that the khanum was after his blood now. The palace was the greatest thing holding him in Persia. A grim mood had swept through the country, he was consciously aware of just how many enemies he had… but his greatest reason for leaving remained the promise he had made to Christine.

Whenever things seemed grim, he remembered her genuine expression of intense relief and joy when he had awoken from the deep coma he had been thrust into thanks to the crude attempt to kill him. Despite the feverish dreams he had been having, he heard her voice echoing around her then - _"God is merciful and He loves you. I love you."_

While his certainty of God's mercy was tested many times, it was proven that said mercy still existed when he heard her say that she loved him, despite the deaths, despite the horrors she had seen, despite his face. It was one of the few joyous thoughts he could cling to in the darkness that was beginning to draw nearer, as was the recollection of the smell of her hair when she had thrown herself at him and kept repeating that he must promise her not to do this to her ever again.

"_Promises are made to catch fools in." _he had said back then, _"But I might promise if you promise never to deny or forget what you have just said."_

And Christine promised, even as Nadir burst in, surprised by all the sounds. Yet the joy had had a short life – the day of Christine's departure was close. She told him where to find her, should he return to the Old Continent one day, repeated her promise when he insisted, and left. There had not been a day when he hadn't remembered this chance to start his life anew, far away from the dark.

"I am weary of manufacturing these living nightmares," he said once, "very weary."

After the palace was complete, Nadir had once again been summoned by the shah for a visit into his new domain, and again asked whether he thought the palace unique.

"There cannot be another monarch in the world who possesses a palace such as this," Nadir assured him. "You have a great jewel of architecture and a servant who is truly without equal on this earth."

Yet the shah was not as content with Erik as he had been years ago. Naturally, the khanum´s hand was behind this, though it couldn't be denied that it was true that the sultan and the emir both sought to lure him from the shah's service – Erik's fame had long since surpassed the Persian borders and reached Constantinople. No longer did the shah believe in any kind of loyalty Erik might have.

"I have devised the perfect means for you to demonstrate your loyalty to me now." the shah concluded, "It may interest you to know that the khanum suggests I should have his eyes put out. But on reflection, I am not convinced that such an act would necessarily extinguish his gifts and render him useless to another monarch. I wish to preserve the unique quality of this palace ... he shall build for no other king. Every man who worked upon this site is to be put to death ... including its creator. You will arrest Erik tomorrow night when he returns to Ashraf."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight he completes a minor alteration that I have required to my private chamber and I do not wish him to be disturbed. Tomorrow I have no further use for him. I shall leave the means of execution in your capable hands, daroga ... but be quite sure that no damage is inflicted upon the skull. It is my wish that his head should be preserved with embalming fluids and mounted on a pillar in the Gulistan. The sultan and the emir will both be sick with jealousy to hear of my new ornament."


	32. Chapter XXXII

**Author's notes:** The next chapter will come sooner, from Erik's POV as a counterpoint of this scene + what happened in Persia. But there's still a way to go till the end!

X X X

**Chapter XXXII**

X X X X

"Viva Amina!" the chorus boomed. Carlotta, dressed in a fine costume of a soon-to-be-bride, smiled what she clearly considered a smile of innocent sweetness, but to the performers watching, waiting for their cue, it seemed more like a leer, and a proud one at that.

La Sonnambula had just begun, but Christine, having agreed to play Teresa, had loads of time to spare on her hands. Teresa was Amina´s mother in the story, the only one who believed her daughter was innocent, having sleepwalked into Count Rodolfo's chambers accidentally. Christine sighed. She shouldn't have agreed to do this. She was having trouble with the lower part of her songs, just as Reyer had predicted. She managed it, true, but it was not her best.

Her mind wandered to Erik. It had been almost exactly three months since she had left Persia – three months during which they had rehearsed the opera, during which she had left for Rome for long periods of time to see Giovanni, during which she had triumphed in Fidelio at La Scala. No matter how much Carlotta might rage, the name Daaé became famous throughout Europe, and not only for her marvelous voice, but also her kind personality, which was rare in an opera diva.

Raoul was still her best friend, around her whenever possible, hoping that she could perhaps one day change her mind. Rumors flew around that she was involved with the Vicomte de Chagny or the Count, or perhaps both. But Philippe formally denied any of "that rubbish" in the company of the influential people who visited the opera regularly and Christine confirmed his words.

Crowds of admirers threw flowers at her feet wherever she moved, people recognized her in shops during her time in Rome when she was shopping for her uncle, who she intended to help out as much as possible, since age seemed to catch up with him at last. Young men from all classes flung marriage proposals at her as often as any other gifts, be it jewelry or flowers or dresses.

Meanwhile, Paris debated on building a new, better opera house.

Christine's life was anything but routine, as she was a major star now, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized she would have easily give it all up for a small cottage where she could live in peace with her uncle and Erik, where they would have each other and music. And that would do.

For the first time in years, she wondered why she had fallen in love with him, of all people. By now, if she were vain, she could point her finger at a man she wanted and he would gladly kiss her feet, make her a happy wife and give her a peaceful life. With Erik, that could never be. With him, there would be hiding, there would be pain, inevitably. She recalled his face for a moment and realized that they would be at odds with probably everything in the world.

It brought back the memory of the terrible moment when Luciana had died. Luciana… one of the people dearest to her in the world. She had loved him as well… why couldn't she accept what Christine learned to accept? It would be foolish pride to say that she hadn't been horrified by his face at the first moment just as Luciana was. It would be a lie to claim she didn't understand the horror people felt when they saw him or that she didn't feel it herself, the madness that seemed to take him over.

But with the horror came pity, pity reminded her of how she had come to care for him as one cares for a friend and dear companion in loneliness, how she adored his music. Her angel. Perhaps she didn't love him the night they parted… not fully. She had felt a childish infatuation then, just like Luciana had. It had taken the years of their separation to show her that her Angel had touched her soul far more than anyone else in her life… with the exception of her father, perhaps.

And she found that even an angel hurt during his fall was still an angel to her. She didn't care about the face anymore.

Someone knocked at the door of her dressing room, bringing her back from her world of fantasy. "Mademoiselle Daaé?" The door opened almost soundlessly, revealing a girlish figure behind it. It belonged to Meg Giry, the daughter of the resident ballet mistress, one of the "ballet rats".

Meg was a girl about as old as Christine, but with darker eyes and straight fair hair. She had talent, but was nowhere near being the prima ballerina yet. Still, she was different than the rest of the usual ballet tarts that were present everywhere, drinking and flirting with all men. Christine hoped that they might become friends after time, as she found that she desperately needed someone to talk to besides Raoul, and talking to a girl would be far better, but Meg still viewed her with too much wary respect – she probably thought all sopranos were like Carlotta.

Christine smiled warmly and Meg entered the room. She kept a slightly larger distance between them, apparently still awed and surprised that the diva wasn't snappish. "I found this when I was picking up my costume – it's addressed to you, I don't know how it got to the costume room."

Only then did Christine notice that the ballerina was twirling in her fingers a flower of some sorts. Meg took a step or two towards her and held out the single bloom to her. Christine took it carefully – it was a rose. She often received dozens in fancy bouquets, but this one had a certain beauty to it. It was of a deep crimson color, much unlike the regular rosy pink or white she received. Almost as if the softest velvet had been covered in blood and sewed into a replica of a rose that preceded its model when it came to beauty. When Christine took a closer look, she saw that a satin ribbon had been tied around the flower, so nearly that it seemed that human hands couldn't have done that.

"There was nothing with it, just a paper with your name written on it." Meg said, showing the paper to Christine. The soprano frowned. She didn't recognize the handwriting. "At first I thought someone had misplaced it, but I'm certain it was left there on purpose."

"Strange." Christine muttered. "Usually, I fear that they break down my door after a performance in their eagerness to be introduced to me. This is… new."

"I think it's romantic." Meg said joyfully, "It must be from someone who knows you'll recognize them!" Christine shook her head. Then, however, she began to wonder. Not by human hands… but surely not… "Forgive me, mademoiselle, but I think I'm right. Do you… know who it could be?"

Delaying her answer for a moment, Christine smiled. "Please, call me Christine. We are colleagues, I would like us to be friends – you seem sincere and kind, which is rare these days."

Meg seemed stunned for a moment. "I… I would greatly like that, mad-… Christine." She smiled. "I'm sorry, I've known Carlotta for too long to believe other sopranos are different from her."

After Christine laughed and Meg sat down, their conversation seemed to be far easier. But even as the minutes passed, Meg couldn't help but remember her question and observe the other girl slightly questioningly. She was certain something had happened when she had suggested that she should probably know who was sending her the strange gift.

All too soon, however, Madame Giry stormed in and informed Meg that she had to get on stage in about half a minute or risk several hours of extra practice a day for the rest of the month, and the pair departed. By the time Christine was required on-stage, she figured that whoever had left the rose for her probably knew her, as Meg said, and thus she would find out who it was.

The comedy on-stage was only supported by the fact that a girl younger than twenty was to play the mother of a woman over thirty. Carlotta's voice ran through Christine's ears like a shriek, and it was hard to be sympathetic when it came to her "daughter" when it was more than obvious that the "daughter" despised the "mother", because the crowd was giving her lyrical and pure voice far more attention that that of Carlotta.

The first act ended rather unceremoniously, because Carlotta stormed off, head high, right after the curtain fell and everyone seemed uncertain whether or not they were permitted to laugh, since the main tenor, Ubaldo Piangi, the oh-so-secret lover of the shrieking diva, was still there. Christine decided to be professional and spent the break talking to the basso playing the Count, whom she knew from La Scala, when she had performed in Rigoletto.

The second act went less smoothly, because Christine's presence was required more often, and so, instead of appearing naïve and sweet, as Amina was supposed to be, Carlotta was snappish and coquettish, always the extreme. During the final sleepwalking scene, however, she slipped on the platform she was supposed to be walking on and fell flat on her face. Everyone on-stage except Christine didn't suppress smiles, most of the audience laughed, only the managers and Reyer seemed horrified.

Carlotta struggled to stand up, but discovered that she couldn't. It took Piangi and two other men to literally tear her from the platform – it seemed as if she were glued to it. And still she seemed to be pulled towards it strangely, back into the lying position. Not only that, but her nose seemed to be broken by the fall – there was blood on her face and her voice was somehow muffed. Since no one knew what was going on, two pale managers rushed on-stage, quickly saying that La Carlotta will unfortunately be unable to finish the scene and that Mlle Christine Daaé will finish the scene as Amina, and grabbed the nearest chorus girl – Meg – telling her she would finish the scene as Teresa.

Again, everyone except Christine was awed by this turn of events. But to her, it seemed somehow too… like Erik. Too much like him. She didn't like the cold efficiency with which all this seemed to have been done, the calculated precision. It was too much like the tortures she had seen in Persia, though not fatal this time, fortunately.

Christine, as Amina, sang "Ah! non credea mirarti", but with unnecessary caution. She was slightly paranoid by now, especially since nothing happened to her when she walked on the platform. After the scene ended and the opera was finished and the applause began, Christine was far paler than she would be after a usual performance, since she had not exhausted herself that much. Her eyes went from box to box – Erik would never sit with anyone, least of all the mass of people directly in front of her – but found nothing.

Actually, she would have been disappointed to find anything. Erik was, if anything, a magician that didn't allow anyone at all to see how he did his little tricks. Then again, she thought, perhaps it was just a set of coincidences… very suspicious coincidences.

She raced to her dressing room, knowing that in a matter of moments, entry would be impossible, due to the crowd of admirers that was bound to gather there. Gathering up her skirts, she ran through the corridors, never stopping, and with the aid of the helpful Madame Giry, she fought her way to her door, shutting it behind her.

Bowing her head with a sigh, Christine relinquished her hold on the door. She knew Giry would deal with the crowd far better than she could. She felt sorry for Carlotta, despite her selfishness and snappishness, because she knew that public humiliation like this meant a major fall from grace to an opera singer.

The silence was interrupted only by her breathing… and the soft, quiet clapping from behind her. Once Christine emptied her mind enough to sense that she was being watched, she turned around slowly and fell faint. Fortunately, Erik apparently foresaw this reaction and had his arms around her to catch and support her in time.

A moment later, when Christine came to her senses and, seeing that she wasn't imagining things, she didn't smile before she said: "Must you always be the enigma, cryptic and mysterious in every aspect, Monsieur Ghost?"

"A ghost you say? Perhaps it would suit me. But understand, my dear, that I wouldn't want to disappoint you." Erik noted as she found the strength to embrace him. "You see, I kept my promise. Now keep yours."

"Does that mean that I'm now allowed to say that I love you?" Christine asked, with the slightest unintentional sarcasm that Erik caught. It made him laugh for the first time in… a very, very long time. It also added the unquestionable loving caress to his next words.

"Christine, permit me to say I consider it your duty."


	33. Chapter XXXIII

**Author's notes:** You are so going to like this one, people. Not only is it regular, but I actually gave you people some phluff here, so really be grateful. Heh, kidding. I hope this didn't come out way too phluffy, because it wasn't supposed to be that phluffy to make you squeal, squee or make any other similar noise that damages the hearing of dogs. Anyhow, on with the story! There's still several chapters to go!

PS – I enjoyed writing the Madame Giry part. I think she's an important character, a bit of an OG in her own way, at least in the musical. Always observing, always knowing everything.

X X X

**Chapter XXXIII**

X X X X

While explaining to Christine what had happened to the unfortunate Carlotta on-stage, he was forced to remember just how thankful he should be to Nadir, who had helped him get out of Persia in the first place. Should be, Erik thought wryly. The daroga had let him go and yet bound him with a promise that he would not kill again. Not intentionally, anyway, and it didn't exclude self-defense, but it still wasn't very enjoyable. His own words were thrown back at him. Killing is an addiction, like opium, he had said. It was true.

Not that a party of armed men bursting into his apartment anytime soon wasn't unexpected, considering that things had been going downhill for a long time, but he hadn't been expecting it that particular night, least of all when he was about to bathe. Still he managed to snap at Nadir: "It is customary to knock first before entering." And equally politely ask why the hell he came so late and uninvited.

"This is not a social visit," Nadir had said loudly and clearly, like an actor would from the stage, "I come here in my official capacity, as chief of police in this region, to arrest you for treason. You must prepare to leave at once."

Naturally, Erik had proceeded to laugh.

Fortunately, they had managed to communicate wordlessly and in about a minute, both were playing the same game, fooling the others present into believing that it really was a normal arrest. Meanwhile, Nadir had quietly gathered any portable possessions of value in the apartment that Erik handed him, finding a lot of jewels and random objects that had belonged to others, most notably the Grand Vizier.

The problem Nadir had been dreading came when he had to persuade Erik to let him bind his hands. And even as he proceeded to fasten the rope, the Persian was very much aware that Erik's fists were clenched tightly. And not even that needed to remind him that only the trust that had been created between them was now keeping those hands from being at his throat.

During the journey to the prison, Nadir sent their escort to inform the guards of their arrival. Once the horses were out of sight, he freed Erik and ordered him to follow the coastal road and leave Persia while he could. None of Erik's persuasion that the shah would punish him, even if he believed the tale of an escape due to magical skills.

"Why are you doing this?" Erik demanded, perplexed.

Looking away, Nadir gave the answer that had the most unexpected effect on Erik – it broke him. "My son would have wished you to live ... all that I do tonight, I do in memory of him."

"Oh, God…you will never be reconciled, will you? You will never forgive."

But Nadir replied that his soul was at peace and it was time to consider Erik's. Even now, Erik regretted pointing out that Moslems believe infidels have no souls. Nadir had effectively appointed himself as the keeper of his conscience from that moment on and made him promise he would no longer kill. He was too determined and had an answer for everything, it seemed.

"You need have no fear for my life," Nadir had assured him. "I'm not quite the innocent at intrigue, you know, I have made my plans. The body of a Babi dissident will be left upon the Caspian shore, dressed in your cloak and mask. By the time it is found, scavengers will have rendered it identifiable by no other means. I am convinced the shah will be sufficiently satisfied to spare my life ... and should my estate be forfeited for negligence ... well, you have taught me to grow weary of Persian ways. Perhaps I shall go to Europe and settle in a country where queens no longer amuse themselves with torture chambers."

"Even in Europe you will need to eat," And with that, he had given the Persian a handful of gems and the Vizier's diamond. "I suppose I should not burden your squeamish conscience with that. I can't pretend it was very honestly acquired. But the rest you may quite safely take ... there is nothing there that need cost you any sleep."

"Erik, this is not ..."

"Take them! I have already agreed to your damned eccentric terms, have I not? At least permit me to make one gesture of myself towards my keeper ... and my friend."

There was a silence that allowed those final two words to sink in, for both of them to realize what they meant.

"Take care of yourself, Nadir. Take very great care ... your tiresome health has become very dear to me."

And from then, it had been a pretty monotone journey.

Erik didn't want to think about Nadir, however. His mind was at times filled with visions of what might have befallen the kind daroga when he had returned to his lord, what punishment he probably had to go through. Those weren't very productive thoughts… nevertheless, they hadn't allowed him rest, at least not in Asia, and thus he returned to the western world, where murder was not so tempting and he had a treasure to recover.

"So you managed to get bits of metal sewed into her dress and used a… magnet? Magnet, yes. And managed to pull her down?" Christine asked after he finished.

"In short, yes. But it was a far more subtle thing than that. You see, were it a crude magnet, an ordinary one, every metal object nearby would have been pulled to it. This was a carefully thought out trick."

"So how did you do it?"

"Christine, Christine, have you never heard that a magician never reveals his secrets?" Erik remarked with a smile. Somehow, it was easy to smile around her. Natural. It was strange, but it felt right.

Knowing that it was useless to argue and still slightly dazed that Erik was really there, Christine shook her head. She then heard shouts of "La Daaé!" outside and overly enthusiastic knocking, so she turned her head briefly, then dismissed it.

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Not eager to see your admirers and would-be-suitors?"

"It makes me wonder whether they admire my voice or my visage." Christine confessed, "Besides, with you here, who needs them? Since I got back, I would have gladly exchanged all the suitors in the world for you. They are nameless and faceless people. You are my angel… and please don't remark that you would rather be faceless." She quickly said, seeing that he wanted to make a cynical remark. "Remember that if you had been born with a different face, we would have never met. So say no more, lest I'll be forced to assume that you would rather never have met me."

Erik's expression changed from amused to horrified. "Never let such blasphemous lies exit your lips again, Christine. Never."

"And how would you stop them if they would?" Christine asked, looking down, trying to stop the flush filling her cheeks. She, a proper girl, bringing up such things! But on the other hand, after so much arguing and time in the opera, smart comebacks were a necessity.

Had she looked up, she would have seen the horror drained from Erik's face, replaced by disbelief mingled with a feeling she had not yet experienced – desire. Slowly, his hand reached out to her cheek, stopping just an inch away, but when she didn't move away, he brought it close enough to touch. Coldness went like a flash through Christine's skin, but she ignored the shiver.

"Christine, remember what Nadir had once said when you allowed me the same liberty last time?" he whispered, "He said… he said that we should leave the country as soon as possible and…and marry."

"I remember." Christine said, her throat sore, still staring at the carpet.

"And you… you would…"

"I have waited for several years, Erik. If you want to ask that question, please ask it. I have my answer ready, and you knew what it would be before I even brought this up."

The slight harshness of her whisper hurt him, but at the same time only confirmed to him what truly seemed impossible for the past few years – Christine Daaé was going to say yes, she was willing to stay with him for a lifetime, with him, whom others wanted nothing to do with for more than several seconds, when it came to anything at all.

"Then… Christine… will you marry me?"

"Yes." she said simply.

X X X

Outside the dressing room, pandemonium reigned. Everyone seemed to have forgotten Carlotta's incident and was far too keen to congratulate Mlle. Daaé in person. Cast, crew, audience, managers – all were stuck in a corridor together, debating, congratulating each other for a fantastic performance. Most of the audience was attempting to spot the diva and shower her with roses, but her dressing room was sealed tight.

Madame Antoinette Giry shook her head. She was a very precise woman and disliked any kind of anarchy. However, a slightly less rational woman would have gone mad and started shouting hysterically at the sight of all of the chaos. She was keeping an eye on the door to Christine Daaé´s dressing room and at the same time, trying to calm the crowd.

Meg pushed herself through the crowd to her mother. "Maman, the girls are mostly scattered, I cannot gather them right now."

Madame Giry nodded. "Very well, Meg. You go rest, they'll get one hell of a training tomorrow, they were a disgrace tonight! Even more so than usual!"

The girl nodded. "Oui. Congratulate Christine for me, will you? We were talking when you burst in." she explained when her mother gave her a quizzical look. Then at once she disappeared in the crowd, her blonde hair waving behind her. Again, Giry shook her head. While Daaé seemed nicer than the usual prima donna, she had her reservations about opera singers, sopranos in particular. The higher the voice, the larger the pride.

After half an hour of closed doors, leaving flowers at the closed doors and cries of "Daaé! Daaé!", the diva still didn't surface from her dressing room. Not that Madame Giry blamed her. However, the crowd seemed to finally get the hint – Antoinette rolled her eyes – and began to clear out, some with some of the ballet rats.

There would really be one hell of a training for them the next day.

Once the corridor was finally empty, it was night. By that time, Giry began to worry about the girl. She couldn't possibly spend the night in a dressing room. Perhaps she was worried the suitors were still there. And letting a young girl walk the streets at night was against common sense.

Giry knocked on the door softly, but received no response. She knocked harder. Again, nothing. "Mademoiselle Daaé?" she called, "Mademoiselle, you can come out now, they are all gone." Nothing. "Christine, are you alright?" Any diva would have snapped at her for using her first name. But there was no sound from the dressing room.

Finally, Antoinette lost her patience. A little worried, she used one of her keys and opened the door. The dressing room was completely dark when she entered, only one candle alight on the vanity. Her eyes surveyed the empty room. For once, even the rational Giry was perplexed. Where had the girl gone? There was no way she could have used the door, the window was locked and there was no other way out.

Giry sighed. A runaway prima donna meant publicity in the eyes of the managers, so she decided she wouldn't inform them. After all, if the girl wanted to be friends with Meg, perhaps she was like they said she was.

Her eyes fell upon the single blood red rose on the vanity. Raising an eyebrow, she picked it up and examined it, almost like a detective would. No card, no pompous decoration, only a simple black satin ribbon. Giry understood. She had seen enough girls run off with lovers, but this struck her as suspicious. Christine had never run off before. Never before had an accident occurred.

She smiled – an uncommon thing for her. If this person made a nice girl happy and got Carlotta out of the picture at the same time, she had no objections, assuming she was right. And somehow, she knew she was. After all, as said before, Madame Antoinette Giry was a very rational woman.

She found she liked this prankster already.


	34. Chapter XXXIV

**Author's notes:** All I have to say is: Mwahahahaha. Oh, enjoy the phluff while you can… I hope Erik is IC in this one! I wanted him to be a bit darker for a moment!

X X X

**Chapter XXXIV**

X X X X

A tiny match was lit and the hand that held it moved towards the nearby candelabra, made sure that each of the three stylish candles was lit. They illuminated her pale face and her smile. It was past midnight, and Christine had just returned home. For the first time in her life, she had walked the streets at night…. And she had been unafraid. How strange. Any girl in her position would have probably died of fright rather than emerge from her house alone and enter the darkness behind her doorstep.

But she had not been alone… and that was the beauty of it.

"It isn't much, but it's home." She said apologically when Erik began to pay closer attention to the interior of her apartment. It had several rooms, modern furniture and everything a lady might need, but it was no palace. Still, Christine was not very much used to grand and splendor, having spent a time of her life not high above poverty level. The apartment had been rented for her by the Opera and she would stay there for as long as her contract would last.

"Christine, believe me when I say, this is a palace compared to some of the places I have lived in." Erik said solemnly, but obviously with no desire to discuss the subject further. He paused. "How will you explain your absence from the celebrations?"

"I am an opera diva, I can have my eccentricities." Christine said after a moment of thought.

With a quiet laugh, Erik nodded. "True enough. I take it that I may stay in your home for the time being and exploit your hospitality for a while?"

"Yes, naturally. Unless you mind sleeping on the couch, that is."

X X X

The managers didn't seem to have even noticed her absence when she came to apologize for it. From what Meg told her afterwards, Christine concluded that they had been way too drunk to realize she had left at all. She couldn't help but think that the older Giry kept glancing at her for moments at a time, as if studying her expression. She felt as if the woman saw right through her.

When she returned to her apartment, she found it deserted. Apparently, Erik went to see the city on his own. Strangely, it didn't bother her or cause her much distress. After what he had been through, she assumed correctly that he was more than capable of managing whatever business he had set out to deal with. Moving on to more pressing matters, she took a look at her post. The usual love letters she tossed aside once she read the first line. The letter from the managers of the Roman opera, begging her to come to an audition for Lucrezia Borgia, she put on the table to consider it, along with the letter from Giovanni and a congratulation note from Raoul. The last one, a heavier envelope with no address or signature, she curiously opened.

A ring fell out – but it was a simple band of gold, nothing like the gem-covered rings she was constantly offered, so sequined that they threatened to blind her. There was no stone, no decoration on it. Yet it was a wedding ring.

A small piece of paper fluttered to the floor and Christine crouched to pick it up.

_My angel,_

_You sealed a promise with your word and your word is sacred to me, but please allow this ring to make that vow tangible. So long as you wear it, know that your poor Erik will lay the world to your feet, should you command it._

No signature was necessary.

The wedding vow, she remembered. She had agreed to become his wife. To this moment, she couldn't believe it. So many things fluttered through her mind – she had been busy with thinking of excuses why she had left, but now these thoughts invaded her mind with astounding effectiveness. Everything needed to be prepared, even though she knew it would be a small wedding. And she would want her uncle to be there.

The ghosts of the past. Christine smiled sadly. It would be up to her to convince Erik to settle "old scores" and finally put these things to rest. And there were other things as well…

Who was Erik? That was the question that allowed her no rest. Who had he been before he had entered her life? Did he have a family? Why had he appeared on Giovanni's doorstep all alone? How come a prodigy could be viewed with such preconceptions purely because of the unfortunate state of his face? The last, she perhaps could answer. But the rest of the questions needed answering.

_Erik won't like this. Erik will be angry._

She didn't want him to be angry. She didn't want him to be upset, let alone bring up painful subjects right after she had agreed to marry him. The joy he felt was radiating even from the brief note. But she simply had to know.

X X X

Erik arrived along with the setting sun, at dusk. He wouldn't say what he had been up to, except for the fact that he had been observing the city. At once his eyes moved to Christine's hands and Christine saw the change for the better in them as they found the ring on her finger, the band of the same color as the eyes. It seemed that nothing could destroy the moment of happiness…Christine knew better. She had been waiting to find him in a good mood and now she was about to spoil it so harshly.

She had to. At least she thought she did. And so she asked. Carefully at first, after they had sat down, after their discussion about Christine's day and the goings-on at the opera. With careful timidity, Christine began asking. It was the perfect little speech she had been running through in her mind for hours. At first, she brought up the subject of the engagement, expressed her joy and showed him, quite unnecessarily, the finger. She thanked him for the gift and fell silent, knowing well he would notice her anxiousness and ask about it. And she was right.

"It's just… I don't want to be rude or to pry, but… Erik, we have known each other for quite a long time, unfortunately, with breaks, but long enough for both of us to know that this isn't some passing infatuation. Yet… I feel I must ask…about you. You never told me about… about your family." She said slowly, hoping he wouldn't be angry. Not too angry.

The silence and the penetrating stare she had anticipated, but that didn't necessarily mean they didn't manage to unsettle her perfectly. Erik was motionless, simply looking at her, yet intimidating. He seemed to be contemplating on what possessed her to ask this question and at the same time, judging how to answer.

"My family is you, Christine." he answered finally, "You are the only family I need – no one else matters. You are different from _them_ and you love me. There is no other family."

"But surely you have parents somewhere, Erik…"

"The long-dead man who is father and the hateful woman who I have no urge to call mother?" Erik interrupted. His voice remained calm. But the danger signs were already present – his eyes lit up, but not with a positive emotion. Rather, it was a spiteful flame.

Christine stared for a moment and then bowed her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"I never intended for you to know." Erik noted sternly. "You expected a fairy tale, Christine, like the one your childhood was? Do you still expect it, Christine? You accepted the promise ring – you said you would become my wife. If you wished for a wonderful fantasy, you should have stayed with _that boy, _the Vicomte. No doubt he will still take you back, if you want to run and cry on his shoulder."

"I'm sorry." Christine repeated with a slight sob. "I'm sorry, Erik, I didn't want to…"

"Offend me? Bring yourself back to reality?"

"Please…" Tears fell down her cheeks. Erik fell silent for a long moment, watching her.

"Oh, don't cry, Christine!" he suddenly moaned, throwing himself at her feet, clinging to her skirts. "Don't cry… it hurts me to see you cry, hurts me far more than you can imagine! Sweet, naïve Christine, poor Christine! You didn't know what the world would say, you are much too good, trusting. You believe in goodness! I have learned to believe in nothing, now I believe only in your love! Please don't cry, Christine! I promised you the world, I will give it to you, but please cry no more! God knows you deserve far more than this wretched world can give you!"

With deep breaths, Christine managed to stop her sobs, looking down at him.

"Erik…" she said quietly, causing him to look up at her. She saw that his eyes also weren't dry. "You spoke the name of God. You said… you believe in him, don't you?"

A brief hesitation. "Yes. Yes, I believe he exists, that he sees us. We have our differences, He and I, and at times He disappoints me greatly. At others, He grants me wishes, sometimes. I promised… I promised Him that if I would manage to return home and you would still love me, Christine, after all that had happened you would love me, I would be good forever." Erik said, with no childishness, "And look at me! You agreed to be my bride and I am bad to you! Christine, I don't deserve you! Perhaps you will be snatched from me at a moment when it will be even more painful than now, though when that will be, I can't imagine!"

Crouching to his level, Christine embraced him gently. "I might have a few things to say about that."

"Do you forgive me, then?" Christine couldn't help but marvel how the fearsome and commanding tone could turn to uncertain and timid.

"We forgive each other."

"We forgive each other." He repeated. "But you won't forgive my silence, will you, Christine? You know what lies underneath the mask, yet you have returned to me. I don't doubt you any longer."

"I will forgive it, and you need not tell me all. Once you wish to, I will listen." Christine said quietly. "But there are things we must make peace with before we start life anew, together."

"We?" he chuckled, "You need not delude yourself, Christine, I realize it is I who must make peace with things. Very well. I am your servant. I will do what you want to make you happy."

"Does it include making peace with that "hateful woman who you have no urge to call mother"?"

The silence resumed. Erik almost wanted to compliment her for the sly little trap she had caught him in. he had promised her anything she wanted. Must she choose this one thing, he wondered, the one wish he didn't want to fulfill? Making peace with his mother? There was little chance of that. The best he could do was journey to the old house, sadly comment that his mother was far away and he had no means of contacting her, let alone finding her, as he had no other living relatives. And then, after they would leave, the little village of Boscherville would run amok, because an unexpected fire would have risen in an old house… a misfortune quite beyond their understanding or their air.

That would be his making peace with his past, the final act of revenge that would seal a chapter in his life. He would then be a new man, ready to start life anew. For Christine.

Erik withdrew from the embrace. "We will never live as normally as you perhaps desire, Christine." He said seriously. "There will be few certainties in our life together and one of those will be music. Perhaps we will be ever on the move, for you are, as you have said, a diva of the stage… and I have my own artistic ambitions, if you wish to call them that, to fulfill. But you will have all that you wish and I will be happy because you will be. I agree that we will be starting our lives anew – at least me. Happiness has been scarce in my life, understand that. As long as you are mine, I will feel ecstasy for every moment of every day. I promised you the world… I promised I would be good for you. And I suppose good sons return to their mothers, after time." He said, rather dryly as he remembered his mother. "I will do it for you, if it truly is your wish, but know that it is a lot to ask. Only my joy that you truly love me is capable of being equal to the request."

"My poor Erik." Christine whispered, "It will take every day of my life to erase the hurt you have felt, and perhaps even that will not be enough. But I will try and perhaps one day, you will feel more happiness than sadness."

She could see him smile underneath the mask, his mind driven away from the details of what is to come. "I believe in God." he said suddenly, "If angels exist, there must be a God, and an angel stands in front of me. Perhaps He has a twisted sense of humor, but He exists… and right now, He is laughing, because He knows I am forever in his debt."

X X X

AN: Like I said. Mwahahahaha.


	35. Chapter XXXV

**Author's notes:** Well, here we go again! Down once more! I listened to the song again and decided it would be anti-climactic if I wouldn't do this…

X X X

**Chapter XXXV**

X X X X

Christine went to the opera house right the next day and excused herself formally for an undefined period of time, claiming her relatives in Rome were not well and she needed to visit them. It was partially true, after all – she hadn't mentioned it to Erik yet, seeing as she knew that asking him to come make peace with his mother was evidently more than a little daring, but she knew that if their life together was to be at least partially normal, it had to include no shadows of the past that could haunt them, if they could prevent it. Of course Persia was a part of their lives that neither could erase, but she hoped that time would heal what had happened there.

She met Raoul on the stairs. He was, most surprisingly alone. As usual, he was dressed in the latest fashion, every inch a young gentleman who made ladies swoon just by his mere presence. Many women in the city would kill for the smallest sign of affection from him. Erik's words rang through her mind. _If you wished for a wonderful fantasy, you should have stayed with that boy…_

"Good morning, Christine. You look radiant, as always." He said, with just enough gentleness to keep his tone polite and friendly. "And you're early. I thought you were the deep sleeper, Little Lotte."

"I have a lot to do today."

Automatically, she extended her hand for him to kiss. The ring on her finger had come to be so natural that she had forgotten completely that it could seem unusual to anyone. Especially her childhood friend. But Raoul spotted it, the plain golden band, and a thoughtful crease was formed between his eyebrows. "You seem to be wasting no time." He merely brought the hand to his lips instead of actually kissing it, as he had done before. Almost immediately, he let go, but kept frowning at the ring. "Do tell me who I might congratulate."

Christine finally noticed what had brought the change in him. To her, it seemed almost surreal that Raoul had, many weeks ago, offered her marriage. Should she tell him? After all, he was her friend… yet he knew of Erik, at least knew that he existed, and perhaps he would think she had been lying to him during their stay in the Orient.

"I- Raoul, I would have told you, but…" How could she ever explain that the man she loved was a beast in the eyes of the world but a broken man who needed her as she needed him in hers? "I have known him before we met again at Il Muto. He, he was an apprentice of my uncle when… when my cousin died. I'm not certain I've told you of that before, but it was a difficult time for me…"

Raoul nodded sympathetically and made a move as if to embrace her, but stopped and stepped back. He remembered that friend or no, Christine belonged to another. To whom? Who had managed to capture his Little Lotte´s heart? Christine was too shy to ever open her heart to one she didn't know well. But he had always assumed that if he hadn't saved her scarf from the sea, she wouldn't have even spoken with him. She was way too shy and now even more so, after the death of her father.

"May I meet him?" he asked, hoping she would say yes. He wished that Christine would have said yes to his own proposal, but even though she refused to become his wife, he felt a responsibility for her. "So that I may be certain that my Little Lotte is safe and happy?"

Christine paled. That was out of the question. But the mentioning of Little Lotte reminded her of the tale her father had told her. She smiled, but her white face made it seem like the smile of a wraith. It unnerved Raoul for a moment, but he saw that her eyes shined with some happiness he couldn't touch. "Little Lotte has been visited by the Angel of Music, Raoul." She whispered, still with that strange happiness.

Raoul attempted to return the expression, but was still concerned. Why was she frightened? "Ah, so he is a musician? From the opera house?"

"No, I'm afraid not. And I can tell you with certainty that while I would introduce you, he wouldn't be overjoyed and would probably be a bit cold." _Very cold._ "He is a very… private person. But he would do anything for me, don't doubt that for a moment. As for the music, it is his talent, but not his occupation at the moment. He is an aspiring architect."

"May I at least know his name?" Raoul asked softly, so that he wouldn't frighten her even more.

Yet Christine grew pale again and shook her head fervently. "I'm sorry, Raoul, I must go."

"But Christine, surely…"

"No!" she interrupted, "I must leave, he is waiting for me, I cannot let him wait! Goodbye, Raoul!" Before he could interrupt, she slipped past him like a wraith and, gathering up her skirts, ran out of the opera house as if the devil was chasing her.

The young Vicomte frowned. There was something deeply disturbing about this entire conversation. He respected the fact that the man may be private and not wish to be disturbed, but to refuse meeting someone close enough to be family was bordering on rudeness. And Christine had been so frightened! Even revealing the name of her fiancé, the very thought of it, seemed to terrify her. The nature of her exit was also strange. Raoul simply couldn't imagine gentle and kind Christine to be so frantic, almost hysterical, and frightened by simple requests.

He didn't hesitate. What if Christine was in danger, he thought, and believed she wasn't able to trust anyone, let alone confide in them? Turning, Raoul swiftly followed her and went straight to his carriage. As he climbed in, the driver asked the usual: "Where to, Monsieur?"

Without a second thought, Raoul automatically said Christine's address.

X X X

Erik sat alone in Christine's apartment. The city he had seen from all sides, it seemed, and he decided to use the only outlet for his emotions he currently had – music. There was a small piano in Christine's temporary home. Not nearly enough to satisfy his needs, but he would have to content himself with that for the time being.

Blank sheet music was on the table nearby along with a quill with fresh ink on top of it, so he decided to put it to good use. However, he was feeling very frustrated. As he had told Nadir long ago, he had neglected music for very long. He had for too long kept his emotions within him and now, it seemed as if his skull was threatening to burst.

_Though perhaps that would be an improvement._ he thought dryly to himself, wiping a whispy strand of black hair away from his face.

Christine had said that he didn't need to wear the mask around her anymore, since she was to be his wife, but he could at times see the instinctual repulsion flash through her eyes, even though, God bless her, she tried her best to hide it and destroy it. No one had ever done that much for him, and for now, it was enough. Eventually, perhaps, he would oblige. For now, it was enough that Christine could love him knowing what lay beneath the mask – which was far more than he had hoped for.

In a sudden wave of anger, he ripped the paper in his hands in half. It wasn't right, it simply wasn't! Whenever he attempted to capture lust, passion, he found himself thinking of her.

He had tried composing for her voice, but his thoughts were too dark and the words he was imagining coming from her sweet mouth darker still. The music was meant to be sung by her, he knew, but at the same time, he thought it too wicked to taint her angelic voice with the darkness that sprang from his mind. So he had tried composing instrumental music or music for different types of voice. Eventually, however, he saw that all the compositions seemed to fit together, like a puzzle, and all were equally filled with his hopes, his desires, his fears. One could hardly separate them.

He called it _Don Juan Triumphant._

If it would ever be performed, he knew that many would find it vulgar, repulsive. He could almost envision Christine with a shocked face as she would read the score and realize that all of it was true and that in this opera, for an opera it was, he revealed his whole soul. He couldn't torture her with this revelation. This pain was meant for his ears alone, reminding him that he might have earned the love of an angel, but his heart didn't match hers, not in purity.

The familiar sound of footsteps caught his attention. For a moment, his hand automatically rested on the concealed Punjab lasso he carried with him at all times – another part of him he wished Christine had never seen and would make sure she would never see again – but then, sensing the quickness and lightness of the steps, he relaxed. He knew it was her.

Predictably, it was Christine who entered the apartment, the only person with the keys. He had no use for keys, plainly because there was no lock that could withstand him for longer than thirty seconds. But it confirmed to him what he knew long before she stepped into the room – she was in a hurry and probably nervous.

She seemed to lighten up considerably when she saw him, giving him a smile that he would otherwise treasure, but he saw a degree of fear in her eyes. He stood up and went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, as if to steady her. "You seem distressed, Christine." He didn't need to ask.

Christine shook her head determinedly, but couldn't conceal the truth from him. For now, however, he decided to refrain from asking. "The carriage is ready downstairs, if you have all you need, we can leave in a few minutes." She said, looking away.

"Go gather your things, then, my precious." He said, still examining her face, as if searching for guilt. He found only fear and a brave attempt to hide it. Something had happened to her, but she didn't want him worrying. "And we can leave, if you truly desire this."

With a nod, Christine withdrew and went to her bedchamber to gather the few belongings she thought she would need for the journey. Erik watched her as she disappeared and stared at the door for a moment before turning to the unfinished score on the table and the torn paper at his feet. She had shown yet another emotion and a melody was already playing in his mind, sung by her voice, backed by soft strings…

Erik sighed as he collected the sheet music and unceremoniously burned a few papers in the fireplace. Some of the rest would need work, but it would do. If anything, this journey would certainly give him many possible melodies that would float through his mind before he would even realize it.

He wasn't looking forward to it, however.

Meeting his mother. Now that would be interesting. He had always known that one day, he would return there, but he never expected to find her in their own house. In her place, he probably wouldn't have stayed, either. She had probably gone away with that doctor of hers, Étienne Barye. Erik remembered him. The man had saved his life in a moment when he wished to die! There was so much he could blame Étienne Barye for, taking away his mother being one of those faults. Her meeting him had begun a series of events that could have been avoided. Before that, he had only his mother's hatred. Afterwards, he had nothing.

All they would find now would be an empty house, too full of memory to remain standing.

Christine emerged from her room and he quickly hid the few papers he had left in his pocket. He was now dressed like a young aristocrat himself, having taken enough gold from Persia to pay his extravagant demands. However, contrary to the usual fashion, he preferred dark colors that suited him more yet gave him a truly ghostly appearance, most of all the black, which he wore at all times. Christine, now dressed in a royal purple traveling dress, smiled with far more conviction when he offered her his arm and they left the apartment, carefully locking it afterwards.

X X X

The wait was agonizing. Raoul knew Christine had entered the house, he had asked the landlord that lived on the ground floor. And there were candles lit in the apartment, clearly. But how much time had passed since that moment? An hour? More? No, it had to be less. But he wasn't willing to give up without making sure that Christine was safe.

Finally, the sound of a pair of footsteps came from the entrance. His carriage was safely out of sight, for Raoul knew Christine would probably disapprove of him following her. In time, she would understand that he was doing this because he cared about her well-being. The Vicomte stood in the shadows, so that he could see the entrance, but unless anyone at the entrance would look directly where he was standing, they wouldn't see him.

Two people emerged – a lady in a finely cut purple dress that he immediately recognized as Christine. She was no longer pale, but still seemed timid. Nevertheless, she smiled at the man at her side. The man was tall and thin, probably almost skeletal when one would come close, but moved with a feline grace that made up for everything. He was dressed equally well as Christine, but Raoul saw no face. Then the Vicomte realized that there was no face to be seen – the man wore a mask! A black mask that his almost all of his face, revealing only his gleaming eyes, part of his lips and lower jaw. Raoul could see that he was saying something to Christine and she nodded before climbing into the nearby carriage, her smile faltering for the briefest moment.

The Vicomte suddenly realized where he had seen the man before. It had been that strange advisor of the shah in Persia. Erik, that had been his name! What was the man doing with Christine? Frowning, he considered the possibility that this was her mystery fiancé. But why hadn't Christine mentioned that she knew him when she had the chance? Where were they going?

The mystery of the whole thing was far too overwhelming. Raoul didn't have answers, save one – the man was dangerous. He had seen and heard enough in Persia. Christine wasn't safe with him, no matter what she may think. And her fear… fear of him, the Vicomte realized, perhaps he was holding her against her will!

In a minute, Raoul was back in his carriage. Fortunately, his driver was skilled enough at serving aristocrats to follow all demands effectively and not ask too much. Thus when the Vicomte ordered him to follow that precise carriage but not get himself noticed, he was fully able to oblige.


	36. Chapter XXXVI

**Author´s notes:** Much Kay influence here, the scene is almost completely based on the book... with one small detail changed. Well, it´s not that small, actually... but you get the idea.

X X X

**Chapter XXXVI**

X X X X

The journey was long, but in a way, peaceful. At least outwardly. Neither Erik nor Christine spoke much during the first day, mostly thinking about their own problems and dreams. As they desired privacy, Erik had taken up the role of the driver, but put on a black hooded cloak while in the city, apparently not wanting to attract any more unwanted attention. Christine sat in the carriage itself. She was still shaken by the encounter with Raoul, but she was trying her best not to get Erik worried about her, let alone guess that it had something to do with the Vicomte de Chagny. After all, she had managed not to mess up until now – it would be a terrible misfortune if she would blunder now and disturb the fragile peace they had.

Erik, for his part, was quite aware that Christine was still as nervous as before, perhaps slightly less, but didn't want to bring up the subject. Perhaps she was simply anxious. In a way, he was actually grateful that she had asked him to do this. He had, after all, been planning to go to his "home" and finish that part of his life for some time, but he had been trying to delay that reunion as much as possible. Now, however, he would "make peace" with it slightly earlier than he had thought and then, he and Christine would start a new life. He was still a bit skeptical, unable to believe it fully, that he would really have a wife, a home and, most of all, love.

Rouen, fortunately, was not far from Paris and the village of Boscherville was close to the city. They had not ordered rooms in any of the inns, because Erik didn't wish to bring back old memories to the older residents and because he doubted they would be staying for very long. The first surprise came when they walked to the old house and he found it still standing. The second came when he noticed the light in an upstairs window. He tied the horses to a nearby tree and went into the garden, Christine following. The house was old, with its ivy walls and weed-infested garden, but clearly still functional and inhabited. Christine looked at the house, then at him, and saw the hatred in his eyes that were fixed upon the house. He didn't even seem to notice her and she found she didn't have the courage to grasp his hand right now.

After a moment's deliberation, it seemed, he took out a pistol from his cloak. Christine almost shrieked, but he merely knocked on the door rather loudly on the door. Noticing the wooden canopy above them, Christine realized that the occupants of the house would have to open the door to notice them. She didn't dare ask why Erik had the pistol, but hoped that her trust wasn't misplaced at the moment. Not that she could do much, anyway.

She saw, however, the distaste in his eyes as the old bolt eventually began opening and the light appeared behind the door. It was a woman that opened, some fifty years of age; it seemed, with carrot-red hair and a very timid face. When she spotted Erik, her eyes widened with unquestionable horror and she almost dropped her candle whilst attempting to hold back the cry that almost emerged from her throat. Similar shock flashed through Erik's eyes and the woman finally found her voice with a gasp.

"Holy Virgin! Erik!"

Erik sounded rather cool as he gave a little automatic bow and said: "Good evening, Mademoiselle Perrault, I hope we find you well." She wouldn't have even noticed Christine if the girl wouldn't have stepped slightly closer to see what Erik would do. As she stepped into the candlelight, the red-haired woman spotted her and gasped again, almost making the sign of the Cross quickly for reasons unknown. Instead, her hands flew to her mouth and, clearly unable to speak, she gestured to them to come in. from this short conversation, Christine gathered that this wasn't the mother in question.

Erik went first, slowly, with a kind of slow dread Christine hadn't witnessed in him before. Apparently, Mademoiselle Perrault was an old acquaintance that had known his mother. Erik was very relieved to find the drawing room empty. There was no sign of anyone else in the house, at least not at the moment. Ignoring both women, he sank into the nearest chair, relieved but disappointed as well. Christine wandered around the room for a moment, then, feeling eyes on her, she turned to see the older woman looking at her with a very strange expression. Christine didn't even have the will to attempt a smile of any kind. It was Erik who broke the awkward silence.

"Where is my mother?" he asked, finally looking at Mademoiselle Perrault. She tore her gaze from Christine and sobbed slightly. "You must know where she lives now." The old woman didn't seem to be able to find the right words, still sobbing quietly. "You need not be afraid, I shall not go there ... but I should like to know."

There was a sound from upstairs that didn't interrupt the sobs of Mademoiselle Perrault, like a door opening. Erik noticed it and Christine saw his eyes dart to the top of the stairs. She now also heard something like slow, slouching footsteps.

"Marie?" a very weak and old female voice sounded from upstairs. It had apparently had certain beauty to it, long ago, but it had been long since diminished and almost gone. At the sound of it, Erik gripped the chair so hard it was a great surprise it didn't break underneath his grip. "Is someone at the door, Marie?" the same voice asked, almost too quietly.

With an agitating slow pace, a woman appeared atop the stairs, about as old as Mademoiselle Perrault. She was slightly gaunt and apparently a little sick, with a blanket wrapped around her like a mantel. Her features must have once been childish, but a weariness had made her look far older than she was. Not even that, however, could really disguise that her face bore a certain twisted resemblance of Christine's.

Mademoiselle Perrault, quickly wiping her eyes with her sleeve, hopped atop the stairs and wrapped the blanket closer around the woman. She said nothing, her throat apparently too choked to speak, or she didn't know what to say. The woman noticed that and looked down the stairs, spotting the newcomers. It was remarkable how quickly an awkward silence could change to the silence of a deep breath before the plunge.

The woman stoop there, stupefied, not daring to believe that what she was seeing was true. She didn't move for a long moment before opening her mouth to speak. It seemed that a thousand thoughts were swirling through her head, foremost of them the doubt whether she was hallucinating or not. Finally, she whispered: "Erik?"

His golden eyes, unblinking, never left her from the moment she appeared, but they were gradually filled with more and more loathing. Part of him wanted to pity her, or at least the ruin she had become, another part of him remembered the beatings, the screams, the pain. That part won.

Like a king admitting the lowliest servant to his throne room, he limited himself to two cynical syllables. "Mother."

X X X

It was late in the evening by the time Raoul arrived in Boscherville – he had decided that perhaps it wasn't a good idea to continue in a carriage that would be easily spotted and heard and thus instructed the driver to return to Paris and inform Philippe that he would arrive within a few hours. He took one of the white horses and set out after Christine's carriage, but not on the main road.

He knew that he had to take care and, using the skills he acquired on the many hunts on which he had accompanied his brother, he managed to stay out of sight. Yet this time, the prey was what he sought to protect, not hunt. There was something terribly wrong with this whole situation, he knew, because Christine was acting very strangely. Never before had she seemed this afraid, not even when she had refused his marriage proposal.

Yet why had she refused? The question continued to repeat itself in his mind. To some degree, the knowledge of who her companion was explained moments of her odd behavior he had witnessed back in Persia. Now, however, he wondered whether this was the very reason why she had refused him. How had she ended up with that man? Raoul knew too well that Christine was a girl who was as sweet as she was naïve and often let dreams take over her mind. She was a dreamer, timid, with a personality that didn't at all match her beauty, which was free for all of the world to see.

From what he had seen of this Erik, he had gotten the impression of a cold, arrogant man, who cared nothing for the world besides the moments when they applauded his work. He had a right to be arrogant – he truly was a genius. He had a right to be cold – one who had to wear a mask at all times could hardly be viewed with warmth by the rest of the world. Raoul understood that much. He came to the conclusion that Christine had somehow managed to break that exterior and see beneath the surface. And that unleashed something way too dark for her to escape.

Raoul almost laughed bitterly. He had been foolish. He remembered encouraging Christine to go with him the very first day, despite her pallor, he had allowed her to spend time with the man. Now he finally understood the sudden change in Christine when they had come to Persia. She couldn't have said anything to him, horrified that he might not believe her or that the information might be intercepted and she would have to face the consequences.

He had heard of the revolutions in the eastern world. Doubtless she had been on the move ever since to escape possible detection, always looking over her shoulder to see whether she was safe. After all, what other explanation was there? Why else would she have run from him in Paris? If she had been alright, she wouldn't have had fear in her eyes.

The Vicomte decided that he must take things slowly. He didn't want to cause a commotion in the village and he didn't want to terrify Christine even more. Why had they come to this village, anyway? He wondered that as he entered the village. Perhaps here, priests could be bribed into ignoring a tearful, fearful bride and a devilish groom and unite them in front of God.

But God wouldn't allow that. God will have brought Judgment upon those who have sinned. God would allow him to save Christine.

X X X

Christine was fearfully watching the scene in the drawing room. The one word Erik had spoken with such coldness had a similar effect as if lightning had struck the woman. She almost swayed, tears found themselves a way into her eyes and her mouth shook, as if she were about to weep or smile, but she didn't. She just stood there, her almost mad eyes looking at him with a great relief that he was real and that she wasn't insane, but also a fear and dread that had, apparently, been there even before.

Marie wanted to take her hand, but the woman stood frozen. "Madeleine," Marie whispered shakily, "Madeleine, come, I will help you sit down." Slowly, she led Madeleine down the stairs. Madeleine's eyes remained locked with her son's for a while, but then she didn't manage to withstand it any longer. She sat down, as Marie wanted her to, on the nearest sofa.

"Erik… oh, God above…" she whispered afterwards, looking at him again. Christine, sensing that they were threading on very thin ice, moved towards Erik carefully in an attempt to calm him down. Madeleine, startled by the sudden movement, looked at the girl, her eyes as wide as ever. Erik watched this reaction for a moment before turning his attention to Christine, who stopped a step to the left from him.

He seemed to finally notice that she was afraid of him right now. His eyes softened when they were aimed at her. "Don't shrink away from our pleasant conversation, my dear." But his voice was still slightly threatening, reminding her that this was her idea, even though he had meant to come here one day anyway. "You wouldn't want to give your future mother-in-law a wrong first impression."

He glanced back at Madeleine, who was looking at Christine with wide disbelieving eyes. Behind her, Marie too seemed on the verge of shock. "Manners dictate that I introduce you. Christine, this is Madeleine, my mother. Mother, this is Christine, my fiancée."

"You… you…" Madeleine repeated.

"To quicken this: yes, Mother. The woman you see here has agreed to marry me, willingly. What should I tell you about Christine? How I taught her to sing like an angel? How she cried in her room when I wanted to give her up? How she gave up a life of wealth for me? No. I don't think I should. I don't think you deserve to know about Christine. Now tell me, before I lose all patience with you. Why have you come back here? You hated – hate – this house as much as I do. Yet you live here. Why? Is your precious doctor dead? Your wonderful runaway marriage ruined?" Erik asked, venom returning to his voice.

Madeleine didn't seem to be able to speak. She closed her eyes tightly and looked down at her lap, as if hurt. It left Erik wondering what she had been expecting. He was merely repaying her with what she had given him all those years ago.

But it was Marie who spoke. "Erik ... your mother never left this house." It seemed to enrage him greatly, his eyes flaring up like fire as Marie continued. "There was no marriage. Dr. Barye went back to Paris a few weeks after you disappeared and your mother never saw him again. She never remarried. She lives here in this house alone ever since, only I visit her occasionally." Erik's eyes still didn't seem to soften, but Christine sensed a wave of relief pass through him.

"You… you've really returned, Erik." Madeleine said quietly. Right on cue, his eyes darted into her again. "After so long… I had hoped… I had dreamed… and now you are here… you are back… I thought I was going mad when I heard your voice downstairs…"

"Forgive me if I don't cry, Mother." Erik said dryly, "What were you hoping for? That I would rush into your embrace, like a dear little boy that misses his mother? God knows you didn't want to be called that when I was little, Mother! You see, I have this dreadful illness – I remember _everything_. And a happy reunion is somewhat hindered by the fact that when I came here, my deepest desire was to see this house burn."

Madeleine sprang to her feet with a strange energy – Marie didn't have the speed to stop her. She rushed to a cabinet in the corner, running through the papers she found within and tossing them out like a madwoman. She then rushed back to Erik, holding several papers in a shaking hand. "I… I have everything here. _Everything_, Erik. Everything you drew, everything you left behind when you… when you ran away." Christine gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth.

"Everything is to go to you when I die… and I will die…"

Erik closed his eyes for a moment. She looked almost like a madwoman, standing there, desperately trying to convince him to forgive, to stop haunting her, to remember that she was still his mother. But for him, his mother was a fantasy… always just a fantasy. And that was how he would remember her – through Christine, perhaps, he would remember.

"Poor Mother." He said finally, looking at her. "I pity you. But pity is all I have for you. I used to have more for you, but no longer. Pity is not love – I cannot love you as you couldn't love me." He stood up, taking Christine's arm. "This is the goodbye I should have given you years ago. Farewell, Mother. You are free. And I am, too." His eyes shifted to Marie. "Mademoiselle, take care of my mother in my absence. Christine." He turned to the pale girl at his side. "We can visit later, if you wish, but now, we leave."

Christine nodded, knowing that this choice was out of her hands and that objecting would do no good. "Very well, Erik." She didn't have the will to attempt a smile. "Au revoir, Madame, Mademoiselle." She said to the two women.

"If my _wife_ wishes it, she will come again sometime to see how you are. Come, my dear." Firmly, but not fiercely, he led her towards the exit. Christine followed, exhaling when the door closed behind them. She heard a wail of despair from the house, but didn't dare turn around. Erik certainly didn't. Glancing at her, he brought a hand to her cheek and caressed it briefly. "Fear not, Christine. My mother has always been unable to throw anything away. She will live the remaining years of her life with the old papers. It will be better if I don't come to see her again."

"It was cruel of you, in a way." Christine said quietly, "All she wanted was that you would be a son to her."

"All I ever wanted from her was that she be a mother to me. She couldn't stand the sight of me, Christine. For my birthday, all I wanted was a kiss and what did I get? Screams, beatings…" Erik frowned, "No matter. It is in the past, it is over. Justice can be cruel."

Christine didn't know what to answer to that. It was almost midnight and they wanted to be back in Paris as soon as possible. She was slightly drowsy now, but Erik didn't mind the slightest that he was supporting her on the way to the carriage. She wasn't sleepy enough to dream that Raoul was standing meters away from them, however.

X X X

AN: Cliffhanger! And the detail is: Madeleine is alive! In Kay, Erik arrives much later than here, two years later, and Madeleine is already dead.


	37. Chapter XXXVII

Yay for quick updates! The next chapter will be the last one, I believe. Anyway, most of the things get sorted out in this chapter. Don't worry, though – I´ll be starting a new phic soon, most probably. And I can tell you now, it won´t be like anything on this site. One hundred percent. :-)

X X X

**Chapter XXXVII**

X X X X

"Raoul!" Christine exclaimed, unable to bite back the scream.

She wanted to rush forward and ask what he was doing here, but a cold hand grabbed hers swiftly, preventing her from making more than two steps. She was pulled back swiftly, almost bumping into Erik. She then noticed that the masked man was eying the man with distaste, at the very least.

Sure enough, there stood Raoul de Chagny, looking slightly tired, as if he had undertaken a long journey, but also determined, looking at Erik with suspicion and at Christine with caution.

"Christine, don't be afraid, everything will be over soon." Raoul said, with the tone she thought he might use if she were standing on the edge of a bridge, ready to hurl herself into the waters below. "Just stay back…I'll deal with this."

Christine gave him a confused look. "Deal with…what do you mean? You­… you followed me… us here?"

"For your own good! You were clearly terrified… and now I see why." The Vicomte slowly turned his gaze to Erik as he said this. "Unhand the lady, Monsieur – I daresay her fright shows that she doesn't desire your company. Let her go."

"Why, Monsieur, such a passionate plea, such spirited words!" Erik cried, eyes glittering maliciously. "But I daresay the Mademoiselle doesn't understand!" Christine looked at him with a slightly frightened little frown. "You see, Christine our young friend here has a taste for heroics and believes that he is about to rescue you from my evil clutches. What a drama, the perfect opera! I applaud you, Monsieur, for your sense of unnecessary dramatics!"

"Let her go!" Raoul repeated, somewhat less calmly.

He drew his sword just as Christine managed to tear herself from Erik's slightly lessened grip. She wanted to run to Raoul and explain to him that he had gotten it all wrong, that she couldn't have told him this because she would have been risking all of their lives and afterwards, in Paris, there hadn't been any time to tell, to explain. There hadn't been the courage, either.

She had managed to take only a few steps before stopping in horror. A snake-like rope had flied from behind her so quickly she had only spotted it by hearing the soft swooshing sound it made. Silvery in the moonlight, it was around Raoul´s neck within a second and it took only another move from Erik to fasten it strongly enough to knock the Vicomte off his feet, gagging.

"NO!" Christine screamed hysterically.

She spun on her heel, turning back to Erik, her eyes wide. She had seen this before and knew what was at stake. Still the similar scene she had unwillingly witnessed months ago occasionally haunted her.

"No, please! Don't do this, Erik, don't, I beg you!"

The rapier had fallen out of Raoul´s now almost limp hand. The Vicomte was on the ground, choking, attempting to inhale. Erik stood, almost casually, some meters away from him, holding the lasso in his hands elegantly, more than ready to perform the last move needed to kill the boy. He would have done it already, he wouldn't have wasted time knocking the boy to the ground, had he not been aware that Christine would probably resent him for disposing of her old friend.

At the sound of Christine's shriek, the door of Madeleine's house swung open and Marie Perrault hurried out, closely followed by a still sick-looking Madeleine. The former gasped and brought both hands to her mouth, muffing the sound. Madeleine only stared, first at the lasso, then at the almost unconscious Vicomte, then at her son. Erik paid them no heed. Christine rushed towards him, grasping his hands tightly.

"Don't do this, please! He didn't know, he doesn't understand! He means us no harm; I will tell him everything, please release him." She begged, her grasp weakening, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please don't kill him, Erik! You admitted believing in God, remember? God is merciful to all – he preaches that we are to forgive even those who wrong us! Please…"

Erik had been looking at the Vicomte the whole time and didn't look at Christine even when he withdrew from her grasp. Cat-like, he approached Raoul and swiftly, as if fearing contamination by the Vicomte, he released the noose and collected the lasso. However, he also collected the rapier Raoul had dropped.

"He will be slightly weakened for several minutes." Erik glanced at Madeleine, as if he had noticed her for the first time, standing there, watching him. The look he gave her wasn't mocking or full of anger. It was passive, telling her to look what had become of her son. It was, in Madeleine's eyes, worse than his previous cruel words. "We should take him into the house, or the whole village will be on their feet to see what has happened here."

"Thank you." Christine breathed and quickly went to help Raoul, who was breathing deeply, back to his feet. Erik only spared him a contemptuous glance before marching back into the house. Madeleine followed him, but Marie rushed to help Christine with the Vicomte.

"Christine." Raoul managed to gasp out. "Hurry… run… while you can…"

She shook her head solemnly. "No, my friend. I have given a promise to become his wife and follow him to the end of the world…"

"The man is mad, Christine! Such a promise can be broken – it means nothing when it's forced!"

"That's just the thing, Raoul. The promise isn't forced." With the help of Marie, Christine managed to aid Raoul in lying down on the sofa in the drawing room. The Vicomte was clearly trying to focus his gaze, still suffering from lack of oxygen. Erik, meanwhile, had seated himself in the same chair again and was staring determinedly into the fire, his eyes competing with the flames when it came to heat and flare.

Marie brought some more cushions for Raoul while Christine and Madeleine sat down, waiting for her to return. There was a great silence that didn't seem to be broken for an eternity. Finally, Erik, glaring into the fire one last time, turned around for a moment.

"His hearing is by no means hindered, Christine. You might as well proceed to explain, so that we may leave as soon as possible." He said darkly. Then he looked back into the fire. Of all the places he could have ended up, he was in a room in the house he loathed beyond recognition with his dear mother and the Vicomte de Chagny.

Christine began explaining things to Raoul, so Erik tuned out everything, even her words, just listened to the sound of her voice. The rest of the room was hanging on her every word, however, though there was some difference between their reasons. Madeleine alone seemed to be hardly blinking, but she wasn't looking at Christine all the time.

Erik, if he even noticed her gaze on him, pointedly ignored it. Had he been listening, Erik might have stopped Christine when she got too close to details to be comfortable. However, he allowed her to tell the tale as she saw it, without interruptions. Occasionally, Raoul seemed to want to object, but then he fell silent and disregarded whatever he meant to say.

By the time Christine had finished, even composing in his mind was not quite enough to draw Erik's attention away from his surroundings and the rest of the people in the room. He moved to stand up, but Madeleine had slowly moved towards his chair and reached out as if to take his hand, but then stopped inches away, as if burned. Erik turned to her, seeing her frozen, waiting for an approval that he wasn't willing to give.

Quid pro quo.

"Don't leave, please… not yet." Madeleine said softly, quite unlike the usual shrill and angry voice he remembered from his childhood. "Please don't run from me again, Erik."

"What do you want from me, Mother?" he snapped, his eyes narrowing underneath the mask. "Forgiveness? A new chance? I'm not God – I don't give second chances to infidels. Don't ask for something you know I won't give."

"Where… where have you been all these years? Where have you disappeared to? Why did you run?"

"All over the world, with gypsies who paraded me around in a cage when they caught me, then when I killed my owner, on my own." He snapped cruelly, taking no notice of Christine and Marie, who both clasped hands over their mouths, or Raoul, who looked horrified, but in a way, not surprised.

"Studying in Rome, performing across Asia, building in Persia. I returned to France recently. And to answer your last question: because you hated me and I hated you. We were kind enough to inform each other of that some years ago, weren't we? And you were going to be happy with him, so I gave you the chance. You ignored it. That you are still here and are what you are is your fault alone."

"I rejected him, I realized I had been a fool!" Madeleine cried suddenly, "When he left, I came to tell you that we would burn all masks! I wanted us to be a family at last! I… I realized that I love my child and won't give him up."

Abruptly, Erik stood up, pushing his mother out of the way. "Christine, you've done what you wanted to. Let us be off before this continued melodrama brings my temper over the edge."

Christine stood up, slightly shakily, but walked towards him. Seemingly, because he saw that she turned her attention to Madeleine. She gently took the older woman by the hand.

Madeleine looked at her with a strange fear and fascination at the same time. Such physical similarity and yet, psychically, they were different completely!

She could only wonder how this girl, young as she had been when she had given birth to her first and only child, could be able to leave the cage of what most people called common sense and devote her life and love to a man such as Erik.

She herself had never managed that in this loving way, having been too afraid, too angry at times to manage to see that while his ugliness might be unworldly, everything else about him was unworldly, compensating that in the positive sense of the word. This girl not only saw that and learned to love him but also managed to make him feel love for her, something Madeleine was quite sure few others have ever achieved.

"Give us your blessing, please, Madame, so that we may part in peace." The girl said humbly, as if speaking to a priest. "We will come again, or at least, I will, to see if you need anything. I know your son well enough to say that it will take much time for him to forgive you – perhaps he never will – but I asked him to come here so that the past could be laid to rest."

Madeleine was silent for a moment, overwhelmed. She then embraced Christine impulsively. Christine stiffened for a moment, then calmed down.

"I bless you, child, who has been heaven-sent. May you have more strength, patience and wit than I did when I had the chance to do what is right."

"Your farewells are worthy of an opera." Erik noted dryly from behind as Christine withdrew, taking a step back. He looked at Raoul, who sat up, still dizzy.

"Monsieur de Chagny, I advise you to lie down for at least an hour and not ride horseback until you regain your balance. Mademoiselle Perrault." He nodded to Marie. "You're the only one whom I offer my apologizes for saying that I sincerely hope that I don't see any of you again. Christine?"

Nodding, Christine took the arm offered to her and, with a brief farewell, allowed herself to be led out of the house.


	38. Chapter XXXVIII

X X X

**Chapter XXXVIII**

X X X X

Despite how their journey had ended, despite not being able to set his first home on fire, Erik felt a kind of peace, knowing that the worse was over. He had finished an era of his life and could now start a new one. However, he didn't intend to go back on the demand he had made before they had even left Paris – Christine was to say her goodbyes as well, to her father at the Perros cemetery. However unwillingly, she had to admit that it was only fair of him to ask as much, after what she had put him through, thus Perros had been their next destination.

The artist's grave was simple, but the letters spelling out his name carved with care into the cross that marked the place of his rest. There Christine, ashamed that she wasn't properly dressed for the occasion, made the sign of the cross and knelt at the grave, for a moment only thinking. She had never thought that she might be saying goodbye to her father for long, because he had been a most crucial part of her life. Now it was time to ask his forgiveness for not having come for so long and explaining everything. Erik stood a behind her at a respectable distance, almost like a statue.

"Hello, Papa." Christine whispered with a shaky smile. "I…I haven't been here for so long… but you know that, don't you? You see me, you are with the angels. And yet you took the time to send the Angel of Music to me. I didn't think you would." She confessed. "But I'm here to say… goodbye. I am leaving Paris again, if only temporarily… to get married. But I won't be neglecting my stage career. Would you believe it? Marriage won't mean the end of my singing – a miracle. I know it's your doing and I thank you for that more than you can imagine. Thank you… for all."

She stood up, crossed herself once more and turned away from the grave. Erik followed her silently like an obedient shadow. They didn't speak until they reentered the city and even afterwards, Christine immediately went into her room in the Parisian apartment and gathered what belongings she believed she needed for the journey. She needed only to enter, however, to spot a change in her bedroom – a full-sized mannequin wearing a spectacular mass of silk, chiffon and satin that formed a grand wedding dress, complete with a crown-like veil with floral motives.

She didn't need to ask herself how it had gotten there.

Erik was waiting for her in the main hall with the treasures he had managed to salvage from Persia and the musical scores he had managed to write in his hands. When she closed the door behind her and he spotted her, the papers slipped from his fingers with uncharacteristic clumsiness. Christine quickly lowered her suitcase on the nearest chair to go and help him, but Erik quickly stepped between her and the mess.

"No, leave the papers, leave them!" he hastily said, stopping for a moment to look at her with a delighted and transfixed stare. At once, like a cat, he was on the floor collecting the papers with quick fluid movements. He was back on his feet almost before Christine had a chance to object. He looked at her again, with some disbelief, in the good sense of the word. Christine looked down with a slight blush.

"They say it brings bad luck if you see the bride before the wedding." She said, now regretting the decision to wear the dress right away.

"Nonsense, my dear. There is nothing I consider bad luck right now unless if the dress doesn't fit you. Are you feeling comfortable? Aren't the laces too tight? I had little to work with and little time… hopefully, you're satisfied with it." He seemed like a student trying to please his teacher.

Christine smiled kindly as she looked up. It would be very pleasant to hear that new tone of delight she heard in his voice more often… hopefully, every day from now on. They wasted little more time, but Erik insisted that he would carry the entire luggage downstairs to the carriage. Christine, who wore a cloak she had found over her dress, only had to seat herself back into the carriage and make herself comfortable.

Within ten minutes, they were in front of the Giry household. Fortunately, Christine knew where the ballet mistress and her daughter lived, as many ballet dancers went there to have their twisted ankles looked at by Madame Giry, who probably knew all there is to know about ballet. Erik himself suggested that this was a visit Christine might want to make herself. She approached the door and knocked, softly at first, then with increasing noise. She persisted until there was a light visible in the window and, finally, Madame Giry opened the door.

"Mademoiselle Daaé!" the elderly woman exclaimed, but then hushed herself. She was still in her nightclothes, with a robe over them. "What are you doing out here at this hour? Has something happened? Tell me, child!" She looked the girl up and down and suddenly noticed the white of her dress that was gleaming in the paling moonlight. She almost felt the urge to cross herself, but waited for an explanation.

"Madame, I apologize, but my need is great." Christine said urgently, "The night is almost over and by morning, I no longer wished to be addressed as mademoiselle. But I need two people to be our witnesses."

Another pair of footsteps came into the room and a yawning Meg appeared in the doorway. She woke up almost instantly at the sight of Christine. "Christine! What are you doing here? What's going on…?" she, too, spotted the white of the dress and gasped audibly, her hands flying to her mouth. "You are married?"

"No, Meg, go and dress yourself." Madame Giry quickly commanded. She turned her gaze back to Christine. As a very smart woman, Giry was quite certain that if the petite mademoiselle's chosen had been the Vicomte de Chagny, she certainly wouldn't have asked her and her daughter to witness a wedding in the middle of the night. "Notre Dame never sleeps, with luck, we will wake a priest there." Meg understood and vanished in her room.

Madame Giry frowned briefly. "I shall ask no questions, dear, but am I to understand that you wish to keep this private?"

Christine nodded. "If possible, for now, Madame."

"Say no more. Wait a moment." Giry closed the door and went to get some clothes herself. As she vanished, Erik leapt to the ground from the carriage, almost soundlessly. He frowned at the door, but, seeing Christine's delight, he pushed away any kind of doubts. If these women were good enough for Christine, they would be good enough for him.

"You trust them?" he couldn't resist asking. "Trust them not to talk about what they will witness? As I understand it, Little Meg Giry is the storyteller among the corps de ballet."

Christine looked at him quizzically. "How do you know?"

"I simply do, that is enough. But I suppose perhaps we could trust them. After all, will anyone believe that their star agreed to marry a masked man, a phantom?" he said, with slight irony in his voice, "Perhaps I should start haunting the opera house to add authenticity to the tale."

Christine was saved the need to reply by the opening of the door. Meg emerged, fully dressed in her best, and her eyes immediately rested on Christine's companion. Her eyes lingered on the mask briefly, but Christine was alarmed to see in her eyes the same fascination which had cost Luciana her life. Erik's eyes, however, still held a tinge of distrust, which seemed, along with the arrival of Madame Giry, to remind Meg of her manners. Madame Giry locked the door, spared Erik a curious glance and allowed him to help her and Meg into the carriage. Christine climbed in after them.

In a manner of seconds, the carriage began moving once more. Neither Meg nor Madame Giry asked any questions, as they were both surprised and curious at the same time, but couldn't find the correct words and Christine's calm behavior assured them both that she was fully aware of the presence of the mask, but didn't make the slightest remark to either of them, as if such a thing was natural, therefore no questions could be asked – Giry understood that it was a sensitive matter and Meg was enthralled by the mystery of the whole midnight encounter that she didn't want to spoil any surprises.

It was Giry´s brisk manner and the way she had gotten some of the priests at the church to awaken that had awarded her quite a lot of plus points on Erik's peoplemeter. Once they entered, she wasted no time and immediately went to search for the nearest priest. She managed to drag out an elderly man, still in his nightclothes, and their arguing echoed throughout the magnificent dome.

"…at dawn, why in the world would you want a wedding in the middle of the night? Madame, it is against the rules…"

"The house of God isn't an office which has its business hours, father. The couple wishes to marry now, without prying eyes."

"Oh, very well, very well. But do they have witnesses, are they dressed for the occasion? If not…"

"Everything is prepared."

They had finally arrived, Giry clutching the arm of the sixty-something year old priest who straightened his crucifix as he stopped in front of Erik, Christine and Meg. He first looked at the tall dark man, who seemed most foreboding, though almost least of all because of the mask he wore, then at the pale but clearly joyful bride at his side. He raised his eyebrows and straightened his glasses. Perhaps he would wake up in the morning and this would all be just a very strange dream. Yes, that would be it. Well, if the dream demanded that he marry the couple, who was he to object? Dreams were heaven-sent… if only the man's eyes didn't gleam like one would expect the Devil's to shine… but this was a dream, clearly a dream…

And God had never stated that the Devil had no right to have a bride.

The priest moved in front of the altar and the other four followed as he began positioning them quickly. Once he would be back in his bed, the dream would be over, yes…

"Dearly beloved," he began, quickly picking up a leftover Bible he spotted somewhere. "We have gathered here today – or rather, tonight – to witness the union of these two children of God…" he stopped for a moment, unaware of the names of either of the couple.

"Erik Destler and Christine Daaé." Erik interjected at once, unwilling to waste time. His own name, the full name, sounded truly strange to his own ears. He had never used his mother's surname – there was never any need. After all, in the good and bad meaning of the word, he was truly one of a kind. The priest would have nodded a thank you, but he looked up instead. Had God himself just told him the names? He felt the urge to cross himself. But then again, in dreams, all was possible.

"Erik Destler and Christine Daaé in the bonds of holy matrimony. If anyone has objections as to why these two shouldn't be united, let him speak now, or be silent forever." But there was no one else in the church, no one to object, so the pause he made was slightly embarrassing.

Personally, Madame Giry thought that even asking whether the two wanted to marry was a waste of time, because she saw a full blind and unlimited devotion spread across Christine's face as she said her yes and saw a similar feeling flash in the eyes of Erik, which seemed completely different when looking at the girl at his side. More… human.

"You may kiss the bride." Proclaimed the priest at last, and wearily, sleepy-eyed, pronounced them man and wife before anything happened, wearily slouching towards his quarters at once. This certainly had been a strange dream.

Christine herself took off the mask Erik wore, but he subtly managed to turn his back towards Meg and Madame Giry, and the ballet mistress restrained her daughter, just in case her curiosity won over. Later, when Christine was thanking them at the door of their home, Madame Giry only smiled. She told her chattering daughter a quickly invented tale of how Christine wanted to keep her career safe from the press and, by not allowing anyone to see the face of her groom, she secured that.

It had earned her a thanks from Erik, though he kept his distance from her, and an embrace from Christine, who promised that in time, they would return to Paris.

Madame Giry was a very rational woman. She knew well when it was wiser not to ask.

X X X

The next day, the Vicomte de Chagny almost barged into Christine's apartment, but found a message for him at the door. It was written by Christine, there was no question of that, but he remained wary.

_Dearest Raoul,_

_I am sorry that you had to go through so much on my behalf. I am no captive, as you have believed – and if love is my jailer, then I am glad. I am very happy with Erik, don't fear for me. I will return to Paris in time, to the opera house, to continue singing. I will never forget how you saved my scarf or how you wanted to save me. You will always have a place in my heart, as my beloved friend. _

_I will write as soon as I can._

_Your little Christine_

Raoul was perplexed. His memories of the previous night were a bit cloudy, but he remembered that Christine had cared for him, Christine had stopped that… that man from ending his life. She had some measure of power over him, some control. Perhaps she was right and she was free. But she left no address, nothing­… except the note of goodbye. She said she would return. He could and would wait, he was certain of that.

He left the building and returned to the opera house to go over the newest schedules with the managers. Apparently, Christine had requested a temporary leave of absence, so while Carlotta had her tantrums, they would perform ballet and operas where a contralto had the lead role.

Never had the arts interested him less than that day. His thoughts returned to Christine, where she might be. One thing he knew – she was alive and maybe, just maybe, happy. He would simply have to wait.

_May the angels in heaven watch over you, Christine._

X X X

The journey by carriage took slightly longer, but it was also more comfortable and more private than the journey by train would take. Christine took up the habit of sitting in the front, next to Erik, rather than inside the carriage, where they now placed their luggage. Most of the time, she now wore a traveling dress or the more casual outfit of a street urchin she still had with her from her days of being the runaway prima donna. Erik found it amusing that she dressed as a boy at times, but also refreshing that she was allowed to breathe easily, free of a corset.

They didn't attract any attention on the roads, traveled mostly by night, resting during the day, but the carriage was almost always moving. Christine expressed her concern that Erik didn't seem to sleep at all, but he dismissed it immediately. Ghosts needed no sleep, he had joked, and Christine, though smiling, understood that she had been overruled.

It had been her choice of destination that they go back to Rome, for several reasons. She had persuaded Erik thanks to the reason that Rome was the Mecca of architecture – a fact he couldn't deny. He, however, suspected what she wanted to ask of him, and he knew that had she not already dragged him to heal one wound of the past, he would have resented her deeply for the request. However, it seemed impossible for Christine to sever a connection with a living member of her family, one of the last, and it would be wicked deceit if they would allow a lie to overcome them.

Therefore, the day they arrived to Rome was the day they arrived at a familiar old street, stopped at a familiar house. When Christine jumped out of the carriage and ran into the house, Erik looked down and considered running away again. But Christine wouldn't follow him and his life was meaningless without Christine, the one member of the human race who was different from all of the other cruel creatures.

Christine ran up the stairs straight to the rooftop garden. She knew she would find him there, because his letters suggested vaguely that he had never quite gotten over the incident, not even as much as Christine had managed.

The plants for which Erik had cared so many years ago while Luciana neglected them were still there, blooming. The sun was not yet setting, but it was still late in the afternoon. And on the hand-carved stone bench, which was still in its place, as it had been many years ago, sat an elderly figure which Christine recognized immediately.

"Who is there?" Giovanni asked, slightly shakily. His arthritis had gotten much worse and his hair was now completely grey. His eyesight and hearing were failing slightly, but he didn't care any longer. Except the brief moments of summer when Christine occasionally visited, there was nothing to fill the empty days except remembering…

"Uncle Giovanni, it's me, Christine." She said, quickly bypassing the bench and crouching in front of him with a sincere smile. The old man looked at her, his eyes focusing greatly, and wanted to make a move to embrace her. She was quicker, however, and leapt up to embrace him, to spare him any pain the movement might cause him.

"My little Principessa, I wasn't expecting you this early." He said quietly when she withdrew. "You have caught me unprepared, but your room is as it always has been, prepared."

Christine drew a breath. "Uncle, please, come with me. Someone is waiting for me downstairs that you must meet… and I doubt he will be willing to come up here."

"You have brought someone?"

"Someone you have been expecting." Christine nodded.

A frown crossed Giovanni's old face, but he stood up as quickly as his muscles allowed him, a little faster when Christine moved to support him. They moved towards the stairs and then descended. Giovanni did his best not to burden her too much with his weight – he could walk, but far slower and less secure than he used to. They stepped off the last step and Giovanni could finally look up, no longer needing to pay close attention to where he stepped. Christine had been the first to sense a pair of eyes watching them and she inwardly hoped that this encounter wouldn't require that lasso Erik carried around.

Erik stood in the middle of the room, his hands grasping and twisting the hem of his cloak slowly, the only thing that revealed his anxiety. In that moment, he had a great urge to run, to forget this had ever happened­… it was worse than going to his mother's house, because there, he hadn't known anyone would be waiting…

Giovanni truly believed his eyesight had given out and his mind had succumbed to memories. Christine let go of his hand once she was certain of his balance. The two men simply looked at each other, but Erik lowered his gaze with visible shame. Christine now stood at his side and gently nudged him closer. He didn't move.

"Uncle… I… I think you know my husband." Christine said, her voice losing strength with each syllable. Giovanni looked at her slowly, disbelieving, almost convinced that this was purely a dream or hallucination. There was only one way to convince himself of the opposite.

Slowly but surely, he moved towards Erik, who remained as still as a statue, but showed every sign of wishing that he could run. The few agonizing seconds passed and Giovanni raised his twisted fingers towards Erik's mask. Only the grasp of Christine's hand prevented instinct from taking over. However, Giovanni simply placed his hand on the side of Erik's head. And what he felt was real, because his hands could still feel! Eyes could be deceived… perhaps ears wouldn't…

"Erik?" the old master mason asked, choked, barely audibly. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes now that Erik managed to briefly look up before once more glancing at the ground in shame, as if prepared to be punished.

"Sir." he said very quietly, unmoving.

Giovanni needed no more confirmation. Even with his weakened limbs, he was able to draw Erik closer and catch him in a shaky, teary embrace. And Erik, seeing the forgiveness of the gesture, wept as well, though he didn't dare cling to his former guardian. But whatever walls he had build for himself to protect his pride from the blame that would be surely bestowed upon him at their encounter vanished when he heard the sobbing whispers.

"My son… my son…"

Christine stood beside them both, silent, watching as they eventually withdrew and Giovanni turned his tearful gaze at her. He didn't say anything – he didn't need to. Quickly, he embraced her as well, as if willing to show all the gratitude in the world in the simple gesture. Once he let go, he took one hand of each of them in his own and brought them together with his own.

Together they wept of joy – their dream had been allowed to descend.

X X X

_Fin_

X X X X

I hope you enjoyed the wedding scene and the fact that the Girys were there – I really wanted them as witnesses. As for Raoul, I thought he had to be included, if only slightly.

I would like to thank all of those who read and reviewed this story – I greatly appreciate it. This is truly the end, but never fear, there are more phics I shall write. One of them, Keep it a Mystery, is already being written, I shall start the second soon. Thank you for your support, your reviews, your love. To think that this story sprang from the smallest of ideas I had while lying in my bed and doing nothing… it turned out to be better than I expected.

Thank you.

Zerbinetta


	39. Epilogue

Surprise! An epilogue! Hehe… but this really is the last part of the story, a rather short one, but still, it contains loads of info. Thank you again for reading and reviewing!

X X X

**Epilogue**

X X X X

Throughout the following four years of their married existence, much had changed for "the Destler family", as Christine often called them with a kind of pride – which always managed to conjure up a smile on Erik's face, whether an amused one or a sincere one. Their travels had become somewhat regular, with the exception of Christine's pregnancy, which ended a month before its time. The child and the mother both survived, though the latter had been rendered unconscious for some time, due to the complicated surgery. It had been up to Erik to name the child, the boy, and he simply chose a well-known and dear name to him. Charles. Afterwards, however, life returned to normal­… or as normal as it could get with their problems, which was Erik's quote.

Naturally, the pregnancy and childbirth were difficult to hide from the public, in whose eyes the name "Daaé" stood very high. Christine often practiced the small back-story Erik had prepared for her, learning some things by heart. She repeated the little tale about how she desired privacy and to be free of the papers for a while, which many accepted easily. Often, people would ask to meet her husband, but Christine most often respectfully declined, claiming that he was a busy man. It was more than true.

After Giovanni's death, which wasn't long after Charles's first birthday, Erik suggested that they leave Rome and take up residence in France permanently. The house in Rome held too many memories, not all of them pleasant. Christine agreed, much to the joy of the management of the Paris opera house. As a small welcome party, they arranged a spectacular masked ball. There, Christine was able to introduce her husband quite easily. However, she herself had been startled slightly when she saw him dressed as the Red Death for the first time. To make them a pair, she had been dressed up as Ligeia.

There had been sufficient time to answer all the questions of the gossip loving society and to experience a short reunion with Raoul. He had recognized her and only quickly asked if she was alright, surprised when she announced that she was now married, because she had always signed her letters as simply Christine, Christine D. or just C.D. the encounter went pleasantly enough until the moment the crowds shifted and Red Death appeared at Ligeia´s side, wordlessly giving out the order that it was time to move on.

Christine had visited Madeleine only once or twice, to show her her grandson, before the older woman fell victim to Death herself. Erik couldn't be persuaded to come – for him, the matter of his mother had been resolved and thus he had no wish to reencounter her. She sent him one last message through Christine, which he received with indifference: "My blindness deserves your resentment… your face never deserved mine… forgive me when I am gone."

Erik resumed his lifelong goal of building something beautiful to honor Giovanni. The first house he had built had been for his family, as they had sold the one in Boscherville. The furniture and valuables from both the house in Boscherville and Rome had been moved to this home on the borders of Paris, which was envied by every neighbor. It had been build quickly, it had a sense of privacy and had enough space to allow a child to grow up peacefully. With such advertisement, it was easy to start a business, albeit an eccentric one, and soon, it became a fashion for the local rich Parisians to have houses built by the mysterious architect.

Then came the opening of the six months long competition for a professional or amateur design for the newest opera house. By then, Charles was almost six, already absorbing all knowledge possible from his surroundings. Had Christine not had contacts among the opera people, being the prima donna by now – Carlotta had made a rather dramatic permanent exit when this had been announced and went to a rival opera house – it was highly likely that Erik would have missed it entirely.

"Then you would really have to make good on your promise to haunt the opera house." Christine had noted with a small smile. "It would be a revenge of sorts."

"A good opera house should always have a ghost, my dear – it adds the mystery that attracts people. Most people go there to be seen, not to see. And a ghost would certainly be an… amusing feature." Erik had told her.

"Well, when I see a want-ad in the Revue Théâtrale, I shall give it to you at once. You would certainly get the job."

Erik didn't answer, simply embraced her, slightly possessively. Yes, a ghost he had been and a ghost he could be, if required. Having her and Charles, who needed anything else? Any ghosts of the past they had had been set to rest, including that of Nadir, who had appeared in Paris some time later, after five years in a Mazenderan jail, which made Erik remember the conscience he didn't seem to use that often, but surprisingly, the daroga was pleased with him when they reencountered each other.

"I had been worried, you know, that you would do something very irrational." Nadir had confessed, "That I would have risked all for nothing."

"We have very different views of rational and irrational, my friend." Erik had noted softly, "This was about the most irrational decision of my life – and, wonder of wonders, the best."

The sound of Charles playing the piano brought a momentary silence to their conversation. Reasons for such a statement didn't need to be asked. Nadir left the strange residence that night with a sense of satisfaction. At times, good could be created from ill, and this seemed to be one of those cases.

At times, one couldn't question whether or not this had been the work of God… the only option was to accept it with gratefulness and savor the joy.


End file.
